Bajondillo

The gypsy quarter squats above the fairground,

waiting all year for the Feria and the arrival

of second and third cousins or sworn enemies.

The Gitanos ready cocks for battle, play pachisi

no Hindu would recognise amid finos tossed back

with gusto and shouts of “¡anda!” or “¡venga!”.

They warm their hands over fires in wheelbarrows

used as portable braziers filled with firewood

of most uncertain provenance.

The gamey smell of roasted rabbit permeates

both sides of the street though washing still

hangs on lines and rotary devices after dark.

In scruffy grass between two tumbledown houses

pure breed Spanish horses munch, meditate and move

no more than occasionally, despite the noise.

The Policia Local's car patrols, crawling through a gauntlet

of catcalls, waiting for children crossing the road

as slowly as only toddlers under granny's eye will.

The brave and the foolish take the rat-run

after dark, rushing home, saving kilometres

but wasting heartbeats under glassy, heated stares.