The Poet Was Listening to Boleros
I saw him. It was he. He did not recognize me, engrossed as he was, in a bar on Belascoaín Street, listening to one of Orlando Contreras’ boleros, or perhaps it was La Lupe, with “Yours is Pure Theater,” on a decrepit, recycled RCA Victor record player. It was 4:30 in the afternoon on Wednesday, September 8. An almost desert-like … Continue reading “The Poet Was Listening to Boleros”
