The nights I would sit on my windowsill

after the bars had closed and I would put on

Concierto de Aranjuez, repeating

The Adagio,

Smoking a freshly rolled

Cuban cigar and sipping a whisky

And I would look out, from my flat inside

the medieval walls of the Portuguese

town.

The late-night partiers making their

way from Largo de Camoes, or getting

turfed out of Bar 24 when

Wander decides he needs to go home, too.

And then the streets become silent

and there

is nothing but the sound of this morose

Iberian melody bouncing off

the cobblestones

And the cigar smoke and

The Scottish whisky and my drunk musings.