Spring in the Valley



It is a big door shiny white and wide, isn't

used much, twice a day when he goes out

shopping and when returning; if anyone

rings the door bell it is usually the gas man.



There are times when he opens the door at

night going to a bar or to buy love bought

and consumed in cheap hotel rooms; a need

that leaves him ashamed and gloomy.



There is a knock on the door of memories, he

gets up look out of the window, it's a brilliant

day and he hears eager steps on pavements,

like someone dancing Argentinean tango.



To be old in November is not so bad, he tells

himself, he can be in and play Elvis's old vinyl

records on his gramophone, but to be seventy

a day in May, man, that makes the soul cry.