Barcelona

The New York times came inside my room,
Her silent slice of genius
And laughter full of mirth
asking me "Is it time to buy some art?"

I could taste the sticky smell of seduction on her breath.

"Is it time to buy some art?"

Strolling to the nearest gallery with her
temptress fingers stroking my hungry palm,
I thought of Barcelona.

When the door opened, we could see a jazz quartet
playing music on an open stage.

Red wine was poured.

She asked to drink my lips.

I asked to drink her hips.

Nearby, a boy discovered that a girl could be more
Than just best friends
When his radiator hissed.
Presumably his motor was overworked.

But no one was dancing.

Inspecting the hanging art, she read my mind and heard
A song she could not sing.

But I had no mind.

And the song was an Andalusian tune the flute player was having fun
improvising.

His smile reminded her of Utrillo, she whispered.

That evening, we cooked Spanish rice.

We sipped good wine.

No, we bought no art.

We had our own paints to play with.