The King of San Juan

Sitting on the balcony

of what might be called the penthouse,

if a flophouse can boast such a thing,

(the mini-fridge and upright fan

provide a luxury the other guests-

cum-residents can only envy),

I drink a nearly too cold Presidente

and puff away on my Don Bienve.

My private piece of paradise

dangles above Calle Tanca,

offering an unrivaled view of

what little there is to see

in this corner of the old city at 8 pm.

The old men with their dominoes

have long since called it a day.

It’s still a few hours before

the teenagers arrive next door,

their infernal techno pouring

into the streets from their makeshift nightclub.

For now, there is as much silence

as one can hope for in this town.

The beer’s cold, the cigar’s smooth.

For now, I am the King of San Juan.

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[Author's Note: This poem was first published in the chapbook, Beyond the Horizon: Journeys in Poetry and Prose, 2010]