Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Yankee tourists


We’ll order cava in smallish glasses
from the café with whispy tables on
the plaza pocked with sunburnt bullet

holes sprayed from the hips of passionate men
sporting snap brimmed hats dipped low on one side,
veiled arched shooting eyes righteous, unblinking,

dark slots that screened smoke from meticulous
cigarettes; great-grandfathers perhaps to
our waiter and the fellow seated at  

the table of eight embroiled in a lilt
pas de deux that seems friendly enough to
a pair of short term expats who don’t speak

the lingo but savor the tuneful swing,
the parry and thrust of slender hands, pairs
of small deft birds winging this way and that

until one brace breaks off with a flourish
to nestle beneath a tray of smallish
glasses that lifts and soars, borne off on the

salty breeze while the other two alight
around a beaded glass of cava and
a lazy smoke; time marked in whispy whorls. 

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