Little face waiter in a white jacket,
contemptuously familiar
with his daily arena – Plaza Mayor,
Madrid where his hands slide red albums
on white tables.
against enveloping arms of red walls.
Red albums, finger-greased fogged photos
of scratch and sniff paellas.
And he has no thoughts I bet,
for his significance among such grandiose
display with sad high arches where faces
were driven at the brink of execution.
Sad faces:
sad little flower of Madrid;
anxious expression over sallow skin,
bothered that he may not understand
the Spanglish we may speak, or questions
we may ask, murdering the words, flattening
coiled letters with our Anglo accents.
When it is over, he may wash his hands
and crawl into bed in a box nearby
with the woman who found his rat face,
his simplicity, endearing beneath
cloudless skies where he was once school bullied,
or given mascot protection
under red and yellow banner of his gang?
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