By Parson Thru
How to tell this?
Bar Menéndez, existing, in the main, beneath a single large umbrella
has served Mahou beer since the Second Republic of Spain.
Service, at its best, was disdainful, or perhaps just bad,
though the tables on the terrace were always full; but they say the kitchen wasn’t good.
The waiters were African, or Afro-Caribbean, regular, muscular, and effeminate,
with the exception of the new boy, who served me with Chinchón by mistake.
The barman, who seemed to be in charge, had a cut of marinero;
I picture him jumping ship in Cartagena, around the death of the Regime.
Today they placed a skip outside my window. It’s filling, bit by bit,
with the inner workings of Menéndez. Where the men have gone, who knows?