Last Night in Lisbon

Half-lit they tumble out late
from the passions of fado --
each ardent singer straining
to break in a foreign tongue
the weary, well-traveled heart --

into the silence of dim alleys
where loners lean easy on
the painted, shadowed warrens.

Why can't you do anything right.
You could have told the waiter
call a cab. They have cabs you know.

They wind through scene after scene
hoping to find where they came in --
a different, lighter movie --
arm in arm in the buzzing Biarro Alto.

Why'd you give the fadista
that kind of money. Who gets
twenty-five dollars a CD.
She wasn't Callas, you know.

Two strays at midnight, fur rising.
Let's go back to the love songs.
We'll have a drink.
We'll talk to the waiter.

They mince their way over cobblestones,
hating each other, holding on to each other.