Cafe con Leche

calimocho covered streets

run red with camisetas

and teenagers wet from la fiesta,

but would the virgin of San Lorenzo

really bless this?

My cafe con leche

swirls its scent with the smoke

of my cigarette and Valladolid

hums in September

before the frost of winter

and the brittle crisp cold

descends on my Spanish town.

But we all run red with secrets

and my cafe con leche runs

brown and thick over my tongue

and teenagers come

singing refrains while 

casually drink in the streets.

No one seems to mind,

if they do, they stay silent

aside from the old woman

in the kashmir sweater

narrowly escaping

blasts of coca cola and wine.

She yells but we don't mind,

not my cafe con leche and I.

Reviews

[emmajoy]

You have a sense of humour amongst serious thoughts in this poem, and, it's very pictorial - I can almost see the scene, the people around you, the old woman in the cashmere sweater.. and your thoughts jump out.

This is finely constructed, has good meter and such an easy flow. Thank you