Poem: The Mayor’s Siesta

  

He snored.

And threads of thoughts of windy days

Rushed by like the rivers of Sierra de Ronda.

 

He turned.

And the heft and touch of the silken duvet

Slipped across his body like the soft waves of Estepona.

 

He slept.

And into his reverie the ringing telephone

Floated like a minor chord from a flamenco guitar.

 

He yawned.

And the dreamy grin of the old pepper merchant

Dissolved like tapas in the mouth of a hungry eater.

 

He answered.

And the sound of his hoarsely whispered “Ola?”

Crept across his chin like a shovel scraping tar.

 

He awoke.

And the everyday cares of the little village

Wrapped up his dreams like garbage and threw them afar.

 

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