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One Madrid Evening

by Alan Mahood

Under the locust trees
On Diego de Leon the early
Summer breeze carresses the cheek of
The muy guapa senorita who is
Looking my way while the
Dogs accompany the gypsy
Accordians which have turned
From a Waltz to a Polka
Into a Tarrantalla
And end in a mugging as the man
In the leather hat cries
On the shoulder of the waiter who
Has no Frangelica, and I
Watch in wonder.
Someones granddaughter is
Laughing as she skips up
The sidewalk ahead, and
The the swallows are
Flying high overhead,
And another dark haired
Guapa in too tight levis
Is tearing the hearts out of
Every man watching, including
The waiter who has no
Frangelica.
The day is dying like a
Diesel as the street lamps
March one by one into the night
And the band is going home,
Afraid of the rain that might come
Like Pappa Noel down the chimney and
Everyone runs when Santa dances
Flaminco, but
Sugar Magnolia is playing
Inside the head of the waiter
Who has no Frangelica.
The dark skinned lady with
big brown eyes smiles as she
Leaves, passing me by as the
Waiter who has no Frangelica
Says he is sorry.
So am I.

-amahood

06.20.2003

06/20/2003

Posted on 06/20/2003
Copyright © 2024 Alan Mahood

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