The concert hall, pre-show: with half a beer
For me, and lemonade for her, we sat
At table. Then I picked up the brochure
To see future events. A little chat
About nothing. Bourgeois smugness down pat.
Meanwhile, quite close, the young Spanish lady
Guitarist started, heart hurting at that
Indifference. Flamenco fingers, fiery,
Were picking, plucking; flicking in fury
Her lengthy locks. I glanced up to view her.
I’d be mature, ignore her story. What
Possessed me, reading, though I confess she
Bled through her strings? Gypsy of Sevilla,
Your eyes still sing of anger, red and hot.
Fri 6 Apr 2007
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