266 – Madrid


I made a mistake
getting the cortado

She sleeps on my shoulder
past Palencia, Valladolid,
into the mouth of Madrid

The car is full of the soft lisp
of old Castellanos

I appear in the glare
of the window as a face
full of all the lights

I can’t catch
or understand

Her cafe con leche has a cold skin
and will not sit well

She shuffles against me
shifting my attention
from the window
and all that passes

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