In the morning post-party
when sun warms sticky Malbec
splattered across couches where
Caro and Offrey debated politics,
I can't wait to get out and touch grass.
The noise of Saturday morning traffic,
much like Monday morning traffic,
is only somewhat blocked by the concrete
wall that surrounds the terrace.
The kitchen filled with beer bottles
and the sink filled with dishes
makes me anxious, and the coffee
percolates jittery on the smelly stove.
This is Casa Pasco, refuge for wayward
Europeans and a smattering of Americans
(norte y sur) smoking cigarettes
and barbecuing meat, preparing meals
laced with complacency, luring each other
with the pungency of cheese and gentle
waft of tomato sauce to stay, stay.