by Frank Thomas Smith
A window flew open clattering wood,
A girl leaned out as far as she could.
The gentle breasts that filled her dress
Trembled with distraut distress.
A moment later on the bottom floor
A man flung open the rotting door.
She cried: ¿Cuándo volverás?
That, he spat, I know not.
He limped across the puddled street,
Cursing the slowness of his feet.
I've often wondered but never learned
that macho ever returned.