El Ultimo Para Hoy

the blind man would call out
intermittently.

What’s he saying? my mother asked.

The last for today, I explained, meaning
the last lottery drawing of the day, urging
passersby to grab a ticket, not lose their chance.

Every street corner in Madrid in those days,
every winter wall upon which the last rays
of sunshine flooded the bricks, supported
a blind lotto seller, pressing his back to it,
secure his place. ¡El ultimo para hoy!

The call transcended the diesel noise
of taxis, whistle of traffic wardens,
the urgent clamor of passing Madrileños.
It was so much a part of the scene, we
hardly remarked it after the first year.

By the second, we spoke it ourselves:
For the last serving of paella, last swirl
of vino tinto in our glass, last train from
Atocha, the last stamp, the last peseta.
It came home with us.

And then it was your sunset year,
your back against that winter wall,
the last bit of warmth glowing from
sunset bricks. Your last evening,
last hour, the last breath of your day.
Ay, mi madre. El ultimo para hoy.

Judges Comments:
This poem describes its scene with just the right amount of detail and moves steadily toward its marvelous last stanza.