Goya, My Man

Come back.
I am sorry.
I was running late.

Two hundred years?

My darling, that’s an eye blink,
barely a deposition of decay
to become the oil
that fuels our cars.

Cars?
Well, I’ll explain later.

Meet me a las siete
en el Hotel Mora
que está entre El Prado y
El Reina Sofía en Paseo del Prado.

You will love the Prado these days.
It is full of Goyas.

Never mind the Vespas.
They are just a means of traveling faster,
unfortunately forward, not backward,
which would have gotten us together quicker.

(We could have met in the middle,
somewhere in 1902.)

And never mind those people
with one hand cupped to an ear.
They are merely talking
to someone they love.

October 2002 

 

 

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