Thursday, April 27, 2017

8 MM

You see him
through a broken window
as he glides in
through the door.

Love is a black dog
in a video store.

You’d like him to say hello
but hope he won’t hear
your new shoes creak
against the marble floor.

Love is a black dog
in a video store.

Nothing of the sort happens;
he pays swiftly
and walks out
while it starts to pour.

Under the roof of a garage
next door, he stands
and smiles at you.
You know there’s more.

Under a lopsided beret,
his eyes are a dark brown;
they say a word or two
but many a secrets they store.

Love is a black dog
in a video store.

On a torn piece
of typed paper
he writes his number
and name “Salvador.”

In the shade
of your study lamp,
you open the piece
of crumpled paper.

Salvador now is a blotch
of blue and white;
the numbers are hazy
A nine may really be a four.

Love is a black dog
in a video store.

*First published by Aaduna in April 2017 as a part of the celebrations of National Poetry Month.

No comments: