I Want to Be in the Market
just off Las Ramblas; eyeing the seafood,
silver-scaled and coral red
on the bed of ice, pitying the skinned rabbits
that hang in rows over stalls.
On my tongue slices
of thin ham, the fatness of fresh melon.
A diesel taste to recall the dark bar last night-
Hemingway’s ghost and vodka martini,
sharp olive to pierce the alcohol.
Afterwards, when the high sun moves shadows
over the streets of the Gothic Quarter,
I will make my way through Park Guell,
see throngs of people bunch
round the bubble men and the acrobats;
slip down a quieter path,
follow the acoustic call of a lone guitarist.
I will sit under the trees, time my breath
to match the beat of the city;
feel my heart’s flamenco rhythm.
