Cascais, Mon Amour

Cascais, Mon Amour


The old part of Cascais, Portugal where fishermen
used to live is now a place of culture and restored
expensive houses, not even the ghosts of fishermen
past can afford to walk around here where narrow
streets are packed with layers of cars, which are
Portugal’s holy cows, and must be allowed to rest
wherever they please, often on pavements.

Along the coast of Cascais there are many grand
houses with big gardens we can’t see because so
many rich people choose to imprison themselves
Behind tall walls to deter the nosy plebes from
looking in; minor royals used live here, perhaps,
they still do, now hateful old people live here and
sourly resent the world outside their reformatories.

Many tourists come here and with one eye closed,
and the other glued to a ham-cam, a tunnel vision
that doesn’t see the tramp who rummages for food
in bins outside restaurants; they don’t see the ship,
in the blue enchanting bay and the men on her deck
looking dreamily towards shore, for a seafarer costal
Towns look like a paradise of the unobtainable.

Hey seaman don’t think of going ashore here, no
amount of life-buoy soap, cleans shirt and jeans can
hide your rolling gait, this is a place is for the elite,
who live in big apartments with balconies facing
the bay; they see your ship and think it is romantic,
but they don’t want you near. Have another beer
play canasta, you will always have Rio de Janeiro.