Denia

10 AM brandy.
Count Frederick will join me.
Avenue Generalissimo is quiet
No cars permitted Sunday,

Denia, a tree lined coastal village,
Lies half way between Valencia and Alicante.
It features women in black, fully leafed Maples in May,
Omnipresent retired Brits and industrious Germans,
Who eat at 6 in restaurants that will be long closed
Before the French and Spanish start for dinner.

A useless dull black ceiling fan squeaks and turns slowly,
With no ambition to reach beyond its circumference.
Clouds of cigarette smoke are part of the ambience.

Fred and I lament his problems
Running a small development,
Of 2 dozen private homes,
Including my place.

Part of our ritual includes this question:
“Why would a Hawaiian Jew
Travel halfway around the globe
To live for months in a German enclave?”

He reminds me, not for the first time, that
“These Germans are of an age that argues
Their participation in The War,
And all of them could not have spent 4 or 5 years
In British prisoner camps in Scotland.”

I again explain that $10,000 US would cover our needs
And some extras if we lived full time in Spain.
Comfort in Hawaii comes at $75,000

We pour morning brandy Tuesdays and Thursdays.
I can’t recall how we established this schedule.
We discuss the absurdity of John Dean’s assertion
That Nixon was involved in the mess.

Fred takes his “Count-ship” seriously,
And is angling for an audience with
Queen Elizabeth.

Hawaii is too small and too distant.
Despite my urging, his forthcoming U.S. trip will not include
My homeport.

No phones in the houses.
No street designations.
In case of fire or break-in
Have sneakers and a gun.

My days are spent reading
And Joan paints.
It could not have been as comfortable as I recall.