Niall OConnor: Piazza del Tango

In the Piazza del Tango,

the dancers have no name,

the sinuous make love to the sinewed,

and old men can strut without shame.

Above the rising shadow

through shutters left ajar,

their wives look down, gold banded,

appreciating from afar.

In their laps their cats a ‘purring,

dream of mice and the way they play;

the old women dream of young men

and the ones that got away.

I walk from the Piazza del Tango

with my head held low in shame,

too many lovers I lost while guarded

. . . didn’t even ask their name.

Niall OConnor