It is late evening and our stomachs
remind us that we're Americans and growl
our hunger three hours too early to dine
formally in Madrid, but we find wine
and tapas on avenues named after
Franco-like generals, long dead. It's enough
to cause us to forget ourselves--the tastes
on our tongues masks so readily our words.
At the stadium, some distance away,
the local football team scores goals; the air
holds this revelry in the very way
it settles around the people walking
in the streets. All of Madrid rises
and falls like children on a carousel.

05/05/2011

Posted on 05/05/2011
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