She came out of church dressed
like her other life, purple ready
for the party and las palizas,
carrying the eighty extra pounds
of luggage she pawned the day before.
“Funny how a lonely day
can make a person say,
what good is life.”

The first time I felt
mutual kisses, whispers
nibbling one an ear,
invitations under the cover
penetrating like a dove
wanting to take flight,
I went along with the salutation.
“Funny how I often seem
To pick and find another dream…”
the boxer, the man I bumped
into on the corner,
Sylvia Rexach and her guitar
taking it to a higher humidity.

At once, we were one
“This is me, this is me…”
and the beat never stopped.
His hand on my back
crossed me to the other side
of the street, took me
to the movies, gave
me his lucky charm
on a date I do not remember,

“This is my life
and I don’t give a damn
for lost emotion… .”
perhaps, on a day the Jewish boy picked
me from a gutter, sat me
on his bike
and took me home.
It was Sunday a.m.
and I held him as tight as I could.