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

If that macho ever returned.