A place in Portugal

It was that bar in Portugal
Long after all else had closed
Repugnant by sight and scent
But remembered because we were there.
The musty glasses and red and white tablecloths,
Napkins in wadded balls and cigarette butts.
Burnt matches and someone fingering a piano
All surrounding the softness of your glance.
The sailor probing beneath the w***e’s blouse
And the smell of urine lingering from the baño.
Voices raised in laughter and anger
While we needed to say nothing to understand
That wherever we were, it would be wonderful.
I remember it all; your last sleepy drink
And rushing home to be loved into slumber.
Each sense returns to me and I give a welcome smile
For we yet we live within my thoughts
And still we haunt my heart.