Jordaan

The Jordaan, on a Monday,
crams canals with flea markets
and a small boy mistakes my leg
for his mother's.  She laughs
and he blushes, tiny hands fly
from my knee to hers. Lucky
to find a chair, my Dayquil haze
overpowers the coffee.  The blur
of bodies, shouting and selling, stolen
batteries, sheets and underwear,
could be New York, not old
Amsterdam.