He was standing in front of the railway station studying the clock. Before he looked he already knew the time, although it wasn't important. But the clock, the clock was important. It was the one in the poem. Ginsberg's, To an Old Poet in Peru.
I kiss you on your fat cheek (once more tomorrow Under the stupendous Disaguaderos clock)
A friend in San Francisco had sent him a copy. ‘You're there, so go see it. Take pictures. Report back’
It wasn't much to see. Not so stupendous. Just a rather shabby Victorian clock on the front of the British built station. And, Ginsberg had got the name wrong. It was Desamparados. But he took the picture anyway.
In the poem the streets were quiet. You could hear the soft anisetto voice, smell the ‘death of spiders’ on the sidewalk. Now, it was impossible to see the sidewalk. The streets had been taken over by the poor from the countryside ... [for full story click here]