Poetry: Mornings in Malasaña
The hilly
streets of Malasaña in the morning.
The late
night bars with their shuttered doors,
Pigeons
pecking between the cobbles
At leftovers
and stale bread.
The city
coming slowly back to life
After the
excesses of the night before.
Street-sweepers
and delivery men,
A policeman
on the corner yawning
By the only
bar that’s open,
Serving
coffee, croissant and cognac
To the
butcher from across the road.
Paco de
Lucia on the radio,
Incongruous
and out of place
At this hour
when things move slowly.
Down to the
Dos de Mayo,
The square
where the city of Madrid
Still stands
firm against the French.
Daoíz and Velarde, two stone statues,
Dressed like Roman senators,
One hand held up for protection,
A hand for want of anything more.
By the
evening they were both dead
Along with
another five hundred.
These days
the square lights up every night
With
revolutionary joints and conversation.
It makes you
wonder what resistance is worth.
I haven’t
seen you in ages,
I wish now I
had resisted more.
Are you all
right? I heard you married
A Portuguese
of all things.
I hope
you’re happy with him
For I knew
you wouldn’t come back.
It’s still
difficult to do these things alone.
This is just
a piece of my life to pass along.
By the way,
I’m doing fine. I’m on song.