Gutterbirds

We are tourists. We gather at the fountain. Our children lie in dirty water on the dirty ground. We are carrying a thousand cameras, in our pockets, in our hands. We set them up for these sculptures and memories. We have hats and maps and terrible sunglasses. We've come to walk these streets with our chins up high and our socks even higher. We know your language and if we don't we get by, but none of that matters.

We hear you talking, we hear those whispers. You hate us because you have to share. Because you have to take an extra step. You are out of your routine and it's enraging. Like you've never taken a picture. Like you've never been anywhere new. Like your mind isn't rotting from too much television and soon you won't be able to remember any of these things you've done. Who do you think you are?

We are tourists. We are locals. We are all children. None of us are proud of every pair of sunglasses we've ever worn. We wanted to think your streets are special. But it's all pigeons, really, just like everything is. Can't you see that? Don't worry, we won't be coming back. You can keep your gutterbirds.