Clubbing
Once I went to a night- club in Albufeira a dreadful place with
garish colours and a man with a Hammond organ also played
many instruments with a total lack of talent, when he rested
a jukebox took over played so loud the windows shook.
Around the dance floor – arena – skeletal women sat crows
that looked at men’s crotches and piercing eyes looked into his
wallet the three ugly sisters had felt at home, their fairy-tale
opulence could have lent this place dignity and humour.
Driftwood from all over Europe t men swarmed around them
Like bees around a jar of honey, a few caught a bee in time
a dream come true golf lessons swimming pool and garden-
Then they got old eating a lettuce a day, slept the afternoon
away in the evening and hungry they had the ails and hair to
do and still dreaming of the right man to rescue them of this
ennui , prisoners of faded beauty and their former lovers
lived at the old folks home up the hill in the interior of Algarve
Yet I could not help feeling sorry for them helpless old age
stuck on a slowly liner and no life raft, as they resignedly
waited to be engulfed by cold green sea and
Albufeira continued its dance around tourism a place for
the “hard working worker,” erasing what once had been
a peaceful fishing village along the coast of romance.
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