Song& 2 Poem by Morgan Michaels

I wish we were there, tonight.
I know a bar there
down in the teeming harbor
that's open each night
with a good view, where they serve you
tapas, those gastronomic haiku.

Let it be Granada, tonight,
where the ghost of Lorca flits
and where, gratia a the Moor,
you can hear the nightingale,
the heavenly troubadour,
in the musk-tree where it sits.

We'll be going, for sure, where
guitars sound like quietly rushing rivers-
sunshine our fare, there,
and musk-melons and sardines in little tins;
we'll play there by moonlight,
by night, in the gardens of Spain