Madrid

by Andy Slade

Perfect nails, perfect for playing,
perfect for inscribing shoulder blades,
with marks of possession and ownership, crossed,
instead they instil an evening desire
in the tightly-wound sound of acoustic guitar
a flick of his fingers, a flick of his wrist,
a twelve-string prelude to human chords,
this Toreador, with sound as his sword
taps his thumb, percusses the Spruce
caresses her mood, conjures duress,
picks wires, as he does hair and his moment,
carefully, with dreams of undressing,
with a look of intent, frustrates her with tempo
until she gulps and concedes, worn-out like a Bull,
a last look through the base of an empty glass
the Rioja comes on, disarmed, charmed
affected, won over, Madrid's serenade.