A happy place, you told me.

What did you expect

of a place? The places are not

happy or sad, one arrives and

he accommodates himself, as he can, he adapts to the climate

from a distance

that separates her from the pantry

closest to hot room

has an ice cold beer, write down

things in a little block, and it goes

looking out the bus window

the snowy cardones to the side

of the dirt road that they cut

the goats. Is this not a glimpse

from the trip to the place where never

we arrived, how much we pretended

name as if it exists? Or do you think

that happiness is a bed

a table that we do not share

in a room from which

would we have taken the ashtray?