Paul Murphy

Spanish Siesta   The endless beaches myriad to the horizon; Palm trees bend in the evening breeze I am an outcast; I ask Elisabeth For a coffee, she gives it willingly I wanted more; I’ve gone to Villa Seca Reus, the names fall like Spanish coins. In memory I’ve pounded this road: Anyway, the bookies, the bars, the knick-knack shops, The Euro-discoes with their pungent, techno beat: In the port Tarragona, A tanker lists out to sea, like a dying whale, This was the town where Pontius Pilate was born: I have made poems out of flowers, Flowers with Latin names, but somehow There are no flowers here; two American Tourists argue, talk to the Spaniards, Who greet me with downcast eyes: They must know I’m bad news, there is Bad news in the offing, bad weather: I read the paper, dream of gathering mushrooms In the moonlight: at the Fundacio Joan Miró I have a reunion with my blatantly unSpanish- Looking amiga, reading a copy of Ulysses In Catalan: bizarrity is compounded with Bizarrity, I wonder why I bother, I could sleep In the shade all day; Hasta la vista (baby). *** ***