Her mobile phone buzzes again.
On a late summer afternoon on Rua Garrett
she sits with her bare legs crossed in the image

of Monica Vitti (from Antonioni’s L’Avventura)  
leafing through Marie Claire sipping her espresso
with not a single worry in the world. A poesia está na rua

behind her, letters from an old placard peer out
from underneath the layers of torn-up posters,
a reminder of the Salazar era; in the arena

not far from the stadium, the torture of bulls
has just begun (“but they never finish them off”).
Their lengthy howls penetrating balconies, begonias

and air conditioners while the radio plays the eternal Amalia . . .
for fado is fado is fado is fado
that tiny hammer of the soul

knocking on the inside walls of your skull
discreetly like her high heels across the worn-out
harbour pavements.

Once again she raises her eyes to make sure
that I am still watching her as curiously as
I was just a moment ago. A little further away

at that free spot at Pessoa’s table
her girl is lining up Pokemons.
Some distance this is – I think to myself

remembering Friedrich’s sentence:
When you are chasing out the devil,
make sure you don’t chase out the best!