In the dying heat of a Spanish September
Wrought iron gates guard the bar's flagged patio.
Plastic flowers defy the night and sit up stiffly in their baskets on the concrete wall.
No horses tethered here among the motor scooters.

Inside
An imposing counter guards the rooms beyond.
As brightly lit as a dental surgery and amply served by whirling ceiling fans.
The chiselled features of Native American Braves look down from the faded paintings that line magnolia walls,
Their steely gaze perplexed.
No pale faces here among the white man,
Just white hair
Or burnished copper shimmering like the painted desert.
Here the white woman wears the war paint.
Piped music circa 1960 jingles just Out of earshot
And a queue for bingo forms as a quiz is finishing.
Everyone has cheated,
Mouthing answers with a mixture of pride and cameraderie
Not too much of either,
Tepid
Luke warm
Like the night outside.

'Two little Ducks'.
No answering claim
'Old Ireland;17'
'No 3. Gone for a ***.'
'House!'
Then silence.

The plain matron reading out the numbers enunciates carefully into her microphone,
'And the next house is for the jackpot.'
Silence.
The queue slowly forms again. Banal lyrics from the teenage tunes fill in the gaps in stilted conversation
Long dead warriors watch, bewildered
And the night wears on.