I, like Simon, have no sense of the narrator or what he's doing in the poem. The first 11 lines are magnificent, with the exception of "upon." The scene is beautifully set, we are breathless waiting for the action, and then somebody from the audience suddenly leaps upon the stage and steals the limelight. There needs to be a way to tie regret and stubbornly maintained dreams into the rest of the poem and into the ambience of Barcelona, and there isn't. I tried to force the concept that "we" were the prostitutes themselves, but couldn't. The poem is too short.
Carol
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