The nights I would sit on my windowsill
after the bars had closed and I would put on
Concierto de Aranjuez, repeating
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
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
is nothing but the sound of this morose
Iberian melody bouncing off
And the cigar smoke and
The Scottish whisky and my drunk musings.