Morning in Madrid
Trees sway like gypsies dancing
in the fall breeze that sweeps
down the Paseo del Prado.
Birds bathe in the fountain of Apollo.
Madrid, compassionate city, soothes us—
me with my budding American mind,
homeless immigrants asleep on the grass,
tourists crossing a sea of red flowers,
a white-haired local man resting
on a park bench reading the daily news
like a wonderful fiction (he's beyond
care and his city agrees with him).
The cool breeze spins a spectacle
of leaves around the feet of Spaniards
who stroll across car-clogged streets.
Time moves like a monk along avenues
where trees dance flamenco, where
winged bronze bodies poise for great
flight from the tops of buildings,
where water slips like history
around Apollo's marble feet.
