The Portuguese are waiting
for nothing to happen.
It usually does
about this time.
They sit with coffee, with cigarettes
and argue in their rich tongue.
It sounds fun to speak;
round, and filling the mouth.
Tired tame sun
lies panting on the Lucite;
two feet dip in its liquid fur.
They are a boy’s.
He slouches back
and fishes for his quarters.
It’s time.
The talk spills on
It pools and rises
It laps the encircling walls
I slip my leash
and swim among
the Frogger sounds, the Donkey Kong
and the clear
Mediterranean noise.
© Larry Haworth 1983
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