The Vagabond Heirs of Francisco Franco

They sit in every cafe-bar
named after the street
on whose corner it squats.
Smoking, small-eyed, wall-eyed
moustachioed muchachos
remembering kisses, fights
and the good old days
before the Guardia
lost their cojones.

They sigh and move on
changing cafes and callejons
but not their minds.