Carlos,
who once gave me his
number, scrawled nervously
on a yellow sticky note,
brown and blushing
beside his large white coach,
places his hand over his white
uniformed breast pocket,
and tells me I get
prettier and prettier,
and prettier and prettier,
and prettier and prettier,
everyday,
and his heart cannot bear it.
He emplores
me to call him
mi amor,
our passing daily Spanish lesson,
and uninvitedly caresses my finger tips,
during this brief morning boarding
he praises my
shedded winter wardrobe,
and calls me a fabulous
young multi-lingual lady,
just the kind he needs.
Oh, Carlos,
rotund and moderately melanin-packed,
I do hope
you will find someone
who will call you
amor.
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