Malagueña Salerosa

The sounds of Malagueña Salerosa.
My dad is having breakfast, kitchen table.
I cannot move, cannot come any closer.
The memory is sharp, but I'm unable.

Guitars cry out -- the ancient 45
accommodates the hissing of the needle
Encouraged by the crowd -- recorded live,
the mariachi duel with the fiddle.

Ah, there's my mom, she pats him on the head,
and he lights up, as if they're teenage lovers,
alone at last. As if they're newlywed,
each touch still a surprise under the covers.

He offers her just love. He has no riches.
And she, as the song goes, beguiles, bewitches.