I sat on a Ronda balcony
watching a crane toil through a Spanish day
with nothing but bad lager and a good friend.
Propped up by a liquid sun,
at 9 we talked politics
by 10, exhausted that and turned to girls.
By 12, still girls,
but we knew it all by 5 and
melted into the straps of fabric loungers,
sated with ours day’s work,
with our artistry of borrowed brush.
Time fell apart that day,
in tiny glops,
so did certainty.
So at 42 I have no answers
and some times, at some 2ams
would give everything to be back;
against a liquid sun.