They are standing in the square
listening to a mariachi band—
they are eating pastries, drinking milk.

One of them has a bunch of cameras
around his neck, backpack over his shoulder—
the other has a paper in his hand.

He looks one way, then the other,
and gives a signal as they head out
of San Miguel de Allende.

They did not eat in the courtyard, where
they might have had wine and paella
for less than a Junior Whopper.

They did not stay in the old hotel
on the square, which, it turns out, is cheaper 
than the Motel 6 in Freeport, Minnesota,

and when they saw the admission charge,
they did not see the Museum of the Arts.
I know those guys, wherever they go,
they know how it feels to live there.