My intent wasn’t to to sit fireside at a Spanish tapas restaurant
on a day that commemorates Mexico’s triumph over France.
It wasn’t to sink sweetly into Argentine nostalgia,
while pulling salt from the rim with a light touch of tongue.
But when a couple on the patio excused itself from the only set table
to tango under suspended lights,
I dissolved into inky darkness
and watched, invisible, as they traced the outlines of their kingdom.
Reina, his only subject.
Rey, her every move.