people thought Lila was
a fragile thing
because she was a few inches shy of five feet
and her face was a porcelain doll’s.
they didn’t know: she swore like a pimp
and, steeped in madness, she cackled like a hyena.
I was in love with Lila but said nothing.
if I were younger, I would’ve fucked her
til she was so sore, she couldn’t walk.
but I was seventy-five,
when the affections of men were suspect,
and the body’s engine,
while it could generate love,
no longer had the lungs for passion.
I settled for watching her
drink tea on her balcony
two floors below me
while I smoked my cigarette.
on days she wore a bikini,
I was seventeen again.
art by marina capdevila