¿Qué llave? / Museun yeolsoe?

All I need’s a napkin to dry my face, por favor.
I’m speaking the wrong language in old Seoul, ne?
But maybe one of these Korean camerados serving in the dark,
speaks Spanish, having honeymooned in Mexico – you never know.
It’s all kinda rock and roll in this place, maybe hot jazz hammerings,
creatively connected strikes on every nail you might find
in my head — my dermatologist’s gold mine, he’d say, for all is never done.
That violent knocking inward down to someone with such force,
all the way down to puncture a love locked wholly in your deepest heart.
Every peg slammed down, down, down its speculative rabbit hole,
with any key to recovering it thrown away.
Unless you palmed one magically, perhaps stuck one in your pocket miraculously?
Turn them out and open, if you can, that tomb all locked and barred – because with love
shouldn’t you somehow always hold a key somewhere to resurrecting it? ¿Sí? /Ne?