You will know.
The front yard will be neglected,
part green, shady and inconsequential,
or it will be immaculate,
like a freshly combed haircut;
just as they would like their grave sites to be
- flowers or forgotten.
Little face waiter in a white jacket,
contemptuously familiar
with his daily arena – Plaza Mayor,
Madrid where his hands slide red albums
on white tables.
against enveloping arms of red walls.
Red albums, finger-greased fogged photos
of scratch and sniff paellas.
Stillness captures attention
on the hard slabs of Madrid streets
where feet beat tired and peckish trails
to gift shops, cafes and signatures of antiquity.
It is a warm August day,
the kind that I would like for my last,
sucking it all in from the shade
of a double swing seat.