In the square

Night fall.

Voices compete

under crowdedwhite

umbrellas printed “Mahou”. 

Loud, happy, life-loving. 

What else can you do? 

Plate of Callos,

which I said I’d never touch again

after being sick in Lavapiés. 

Generous tapa.  

Rude, really, not to eat 

so I left half.

Art of compromise.    

Cars,

motos

streaming round the rotonda. 

Illuminated buses whine and squeal to paradas. 

Cars stop anywhere to collect, unload. 

No hay un problema,

but don’t hesitate

or horns will harry you all the way

from Puerta de Alcalá. 

Journeying homegoers. 

Long days. 

Ten o’clock dinners

in stacked apartments. 

News and peninsular weather

for the long weekend. 

Bursts of Spanish,

American

British

all lost in the clamour.

Cigarette smoke hangs above tables.

 Waiter asks “English?”

“Yes.” I reply.

“Visiting Madrid?”

“No.” 

“I live there." nodding

"Across the road.” 

Feels like conceit. 

Stocky men

in open shirts

hold plaza conversations. 

Pearl-hung ladies

limp home

from arthritic liaisons. 

Lanterned church tower looms

over trees bathed

in sodiumblossom. 

Women chattering in hijabs. 

Gorgeous tight-clad Lycra girls

draw deeply on their cigarettes

striding to the gym.

I ask for the bill.