Cava
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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