The Osaka Sky Building sheltered us from almost nothing.
A man in a sombrero playing the harp and assorted smells and signs,
both Japanese and Spanish, greeted us.
An unhappy cardboard cactus with a mustache told us the prices
were not worth paying, and looking at the oddly translated quesadilla sign
we agreed and slipped away to a convenience store,
musing whether or not people in Japan ever ordered a taco and got tako
or ordered tako and got a taco,
or if anyone ever made a tako taco just for fun.
The idea made us laugh and flinch as we climbed forty stories to the sky in a machine.
Lights freckled the city as we stood on its nose and I knew I was caught between;
lost or found, I didn’t know.
We didn’t stay at the top long;
it was pretty but cold.
The descent from one building to another started slow;
the escalator was glass, echoing the music from below.
I gripped the sides and tried not to imagine
plucking me from the sky.
Ears popping we arrived on the ground, and found
that rain had made the festival a community.
Ignoring the haven inside the building, everyone huddled under the roof,
watching a Mexican mariachi band with Japanese dancers.
We giggled in our corner as Captain Jack Sparrow tried to join them.
I felt the loss of opportunity as I tried to film everything.
When I would return here the stage would be replaced by a tree with lights flashing to the sound of The Beatles, the balloon Tequila bottle would transform into a small army of trolls, the 700 yen burritos would become 700 yen sausages, the tents with Mexican flags to gingerbread houses, September would be November, and it would be a German Christmas.
The cold would be as invisible as the rain was, and I would chance the escalator one more time.