Back in Barcelona

Dear John

These days I can't say
that I can tell anyone anything
with something approaching certainty.
But, if you've left yourself
wandering drunk along the Ramblas
after the Irish bar has closed,
and you've managed to wring a smile
from the barmaid who mistook
your gregariousness for flirting,
if, after a couple hours drinking
with Rory, the cockney bloke
with the prototypical
fucked up English teeth,
you stumble amazed
at all the whores
who see you from a distance
and race over to you
to hold you by the elbow
and grab your balls boldly
saying, " chupa, chupa ?"
( more statement than question)
and you are not wise enough
to run the other way
back to your hotel room
take a shower and fill yourself
with as much water as
your beer bloated belly can stand
but instead ask them where they are from,
and how long have they lived in Spain
and how old they are and,
one time,
you actually reach out
and touch her,
gently,
on the cheek
amazed
that one so young
could be selling her flesh
in a foreign land in the wee hours
before you decide that, actually,
this is a bit crazy,
and probably more dangerous
than you're willing to admit
and you'd be far better off
if you haul your ass outta there
back to your lonely room and
you start to do so but
you run into yet another whore,
this one older, Latina,
as opposed to the African majority,
who makes a beeline for you
as you approach and
actually bares her breasts,
grabs your wrist and,
more than less, cops a feel for you,
yes, it's probably better of you don't say,

" Que pasa con
esas bolsas de silicona,
son falsas!"

for whatever
hardness of heart,
or resignation
or resilience she has,
or you think she has,
or you project upon her,

she'll be none too pleased,

that much I can tell you.