The architect of our party cuts
the pringá, is himself a directory
of pasos. On the wall behind him,
a mirror features a giddy Bavarian
floating in a deafening jar of beer.
He smiles in the froth. His chin floats;
likewise, his feathered green felt
hat. “¡Tome su copa con pajarito!”
Like being in Cadiz
and correlating Puerto Rico.
Or being in Granada
and thinking of Baghdad
or being in another point in Andalucía
and thinking of Texas.
We just as easily could be
in “The Quarter” of New Orleans;
but, of course, when friends
raise their glasses at Codornices,
they are in Seville.