Saturday, March 15, 2014

A fleeting encounter

buzzed by beer
two strangers meet
in tavern of conspirators*

hot cigarette smoke
in cold night air
wreaths rambling conversation

"You sound like Chris O'Dowd" she says
"I'm Scottish", he replies, before in pidgin Deutsch
advising that he speaks little German

paths diverge, and in his pocket,
a small rectangle of card
represents the only link remaining.

He thinks fondly of her
and wishes her well.

*A convenient translation of "Taberna de Conspiradores", the post-Jarama march howff favoured by the Dundee contingent in Madrid

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