THE CAFÉ

That old café with its bourgeoisie gatherings
evoked in the lines of Fernando Fortún
portrays a rosy age of mascara, marchionesses,
modernist groups, silk, and puns.
A time I would like to have known
—the drunkenness of Rubén, the boldness of Valle—
keeping the speech of the street in my poems
and the purple echo of Stéphane Mallarmé.
I would not mind boarding-house poverty
if my verses enjoyed the endorsement and praise
of Machado (Manuel) and Leopoldo Lugones.
But my time is another. I live impoverished
with fifteen rooms, my verses go on sale
and those figures are names in Espasa.