Cafe Lameiros

The four sit at the table,

outside the cafe,

the women perched on the knees of their men,

underwear showing neon through tight pants,

hair loose and dark against their skin.

There is a symmetry to it,

the way the shoulders slump down to the table,

work-worn hands,

brown with sun,

resting,

on the lower backs of their women.

There is such splendor,

in the four,

at the table,

with their laughter,

the goodness of touch unabashed.

They are the truth,

as they sit in the shade,

the hills around them green and dotted with ruins,

the skeleton cork trees,

the living drinking coffee and the dead stacked in their graves,

a child giving fresh dirt,

to the worms of her mother,

And here are these women,

perched on the knees of their men,

beautiful,

belonging to the countryside,

belonging to the dead and to their children,

and the four at the table,

they look like modern art,

painted by someone,

who changed everything.