Barcelona

Above Placa Real the palm trees nod
like caged giraffes. Pubescent prostitutes,
dressed-up in ra-ra skirts and Lurex boots
patrol their pitch. As evening falls an odd
pink light pervades the patched Baroque arcade.
A girl steps from the shadows, face aglow,
like some doomed saint by Caravaggio;
her sallow beauty mocks the drab parade.
Across the faded square a duo plays
upon accordion and clarinet,
up-beat and strangely phrased, ‘Those Were the Days’.
Fooled by the atmosphere of veiled regret,
we quietly deny what we became,
pretending yet, ‘our dreams are still the same.’

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