Nothing in my inbox just now
so you may entertain me. A pleasure, Sir.
I hear the Gulf Stream just went south.
How d’you like your pina colada?
What was that music now, a quick
Spanish song, stamp of heels, flare
of a black skirt, flash of white teeth,
lo que el viol se viente. Goodnight Pamplona.
Lighten up Sir. Gone are the days
of the popular Lament for a Penny Cigar
when five farthings was a living wage,
everyone a prince among equals.
According to my stern religion
which is no religion at all, nothing at all
between us and starlight, cause and effect,
between us and our clenched teeth.
And always the mad old bat in the corner
lurking under the fake potted palm
who wants the band to play tango tango
but they won’t. Oh no they won’t.
Her last tango brought the riot police,
everyone into the vans and off to the caracel,
a week’s loss of earnings, scoldings, hungry kids.
That was long ago Sir. We don’t speak of it now.
I remember her then, all wild raven hair.
When she left it was for a fortnight.
All I have is this snapshot of her waving,
waving from the boat that took her away.
I see Sir. I see it is taken from the back.
But it is not her and yes she is waving but not to you.
She is waving to someone else, there, that man
in the bow tie, in the black and white of it all. Sir.