Hay no ciudad sin poesia states the government sponsored sign in the Subte. I see that poetry in the narrow streets still echoing horses hooves and uneven rhyme in the sidewalk blocks cracked and broken, heaving from overgrown trees. There is an uncomfortable dissonance as car horn musicians attempt to part traffic with their insistence and a resonant beat of the people marching and clanging pots to protest the rising of taxes. I see poetry in the juxtaposition of architecture from a time so old you eat its dust as it defiantly restates its domain against the arrogant childishness of straight-lined glass and steel. There is poetry in the way that strangers and friends alike greet each other with a kiss on the cheek and then squeeze themselves into an already overcrowded sausage of a Subte. There is no Buenos Aires without this poetry.