Cold as a good dog’s nose,
the color of nipples,
soaked in brine and
garlic stuffed
with sweetness –
not of sugar, but a sweetness
nonetheless.
We share a tiny dish with wine, we
relish them,
these oval drupes from rough jar
geometries,
whose provenance we strain to read,
in fine gold print, on peeling labels:
Spain.
Tunisia. Lebanon.
The breeze through the cracked open
window smells
fresh of rainy pavement. The hotel radiator clicks
proudly, its service is exemplary,
we wonder if it might expect a tip.
Our licked fingers tinge the napkin
with spots of brown liquor. “Spain is best”,
you assert – “we
should put it on our list”.
“It rains in Spain” I counter, and we
teasing
try to place the blame on who lost the
umbrella.
The rain stops. We could go now.
But a few more Spanish olives
hide among the Lebanese,
so we sit inside and smile
at the dampness of the city afternoon.
Greg Ennis