Moon Over Barcelona
Rambla de Catalunya, 14 June 14
The way my balding father parted his hair
left a moon of skin to shimmer with toil.
He dreamt of walking these leafy ramblas
and never did. Labour’s love affair,
exile’s clockless plough, and launching children
precluded travels. The epic of the prismed life
he bequeathed to me, cigar in hand,
sliding down a boulevard rife
with fat tourists, a whore or two, nervy waiters,
and blurred youth skating to their thin doom.
In the tonsure between the branches, a full moon
erases fists of clouds the way a father’s
memory restores the quiet to a path.
There is no first journey, only the last.
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