Peruana

The sky is white with flecks of gray, 

Like the first snowfall in a city, but collected in the clouds. 

The cool breeze brings in snatches of the street over the walls. 

Engines whining blend to make a never ending wash of rushing water. 

The strum of the flamenco guitar and trumpets waft in from an open window, blaring from the radio fastened to the hip of an old crooked woman, smacking her cloth duster along in time. 

The neon green walls are at once welcoming and nauseating, like the strong perfume of an old grandmother, masking the scent of old age. 

I have never felt so immediately at home.