My favorite Spanish word is sigiloso.
It comes to me unbidden of a sudden
from that place frondoso in my noggin,
the quarter that is menos lugareño,
con tan poco apego to the local
that I can be exotically vocal.

Resulta que me_evoca English “sigil,”
a seal que no_es lo mismo que foca;
of logic en mi_idioma hay muy poca.
It leads me to your sister’s chest-of-drawers:
No_es lo mismo “la cómoda de
tu hermana” que “acomódame
a tu hermana” — ¡Dios, qué_escándalo!
The play on words es un retruécano.

Arturo Rodríguez told me this tale:
A man’s car failed him in a lonely dale.
Nearby pastured a horse, and distant lay
a farmer’s house where urchins were at play
(Arturo’s word for “urchins” was escuincles).
“Es el carburador,” murmured a voice.
As to who had spoken there was no choice.
The man hightailed it to the house in panic.
“YOUR HORSE JUST TALKED!” he stammered halfway manic.
“It said my problem is the carburetor!”
“Not possible,” the farmer said. “That horse
no sabe nada de mecánica.”

Artesano del arco, ¡te saludo!
Arturo, amigo de grato recuerdo,
viviste_antaño en mi cobertizo.
En paz descanses, maestro de canto,
y obra de ladrillo y cemento.

(c) 2023 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved