City Moon

Perfect disc of moon, huge and simmering low on the capital’s filthy horizon— ¡Ay, qué luna más hermosa! she says pushing the stroller slowly down Atocha. And gorgeous too the firm-thighed boys from Lisbon a block away, who work Kilometer Zero’s sidewalk, the neon shoestore they lean against cupping the flames of passing strangers. The sky above Puerta del Sol turns a darker shade of blue. Who says it doesn’t become night’s one eye as it scales the heavens, paling and shrinking before it moves across a late June sky? And below, men persist and circle the plaza, twin fountains brimming over their brilliant waters. Hours from now with the heat waning, the same moon will spot the figure of him making past Neptune, the Ritz the orange jumpsuits hopping off trucks to sweep and spray, hosing down those electric streets.