SAUDADE Poem by Mario Rivero

They say that all time past is better
and I believe that too
Some long for horse-drawn coaches
postcards
and trunks smelling of stale perfume

I personally long for
the days when I went about with a bundle of rags
and a horseshoe as a talisman
from city to city
And above all for that small room at the back
that patio with geraniums
and her moon face when she came in late
smelling of cheap liquor
and how she rolled over me so that I would warm her up
and how she devoured everything
except the newspapers and the coarse soap

Now when I sit down
at my typewriter
to write notes in exact time with the devil or the angel
I long for all her paltriness her patchouli and the hard bread
when already I am beginning to be a funeral director . . .