Sunday afternoon

Saturday afternoon

The wind blew hard this afternoon in Cascais
whirls of dry soil, the dust, smarted eyes
Not much fun walking around doing nothing
looking into shop windows of expensive dresses
A barber shop was still open, and a barber with
scissors in his hand looked haughty, challenging
me to enter, oh, no, my man, my wife cuts my hair
I hate having a haircut, a few strands of hair left
on my scalp, may not grow back.
Horses turn their back to the wind, and I had to
face the blast going home.
I sat on the terrace, looking at the sea that
was greenish today; I don’t look at the ocean
often having seen the sea until tedium
while waiting for the potatoes to boil.
But I do remember the Caribbean Sea, with
a dulcet smile.