A roof from the rain,
cortege of beehive bodies,
the Bar Hermanos. The virgin
and all angels singing mambo
beneath the chord of light,
reflected in midnight cobbles. This
vertigo world, this hour of thunder,
of battered hearts that yearn
for love’s remembered glide.
The patrone bows and signals
a table. Business is slow,
Los pluerentes, you see.
From the singer a shrug,
movement of shoulders
sinews of a pulsing neck.
The edge of a star swirling into,
away from her breasts,
white dress opening to her ribs,
her full skirt spinning.
In front of stage, black hat Topper,
under a cigar cloud.
Nods to the band,
places two fingers
to his lips. Hoping for Saturday,
or at least a brief fullness of heart.
The beat eluding, escaping the pupil's
lamp, cage of longing, of firey liquor
and lazy ceiling fans.
The guitarist a rooster,
plucking, flashing notes, like bank
notes, like a squall of knowing smiles,
religious jewels, a celebration of lust.
Her flesh beneath the subtle curve
of waist, twirling fireflies.
An angel game. Unfolding.