Casa Pasco

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.