Malaga Night

we arrive late     the luggage lost
sleepless and hungry
I walk out of the hotel
merge with the sticky darkness
all the while recalling Vallejo’s line
—Malaga without father or mother—

a few blocks away I enter a small bar
where sailorly plates of dried fish
entertain the windows

the bartender is no more friendly
than the fish or his one customer
with the single drink

they size me up—what the hell is a tourist
doing in this part of town this time of night?—
so I am quick and definite
—what have you got to eat?—

the bartender points with his head
to a poor fish on a plate—I’ll take it
wrap it up to go—

I leave wondering if I will be followed
by nothing with knives in its hands
but nothing happens I walk alone

at the hotel I wake my wife up
we devour the enormous sardine
the window has the taste of dawn