|Un Corazón que Escucha|
I wake up around noon, stumble into the bathroom,
take a piss and decide against a shower.
Looking into the mirror, I sometimes forget tattoos, long hair and beards
might frighten certain people away. By 'certain people' I mean women.
Women often care about little things like hairiness and hygiene -
whether or not you're handsome or heroic.
Maria, my Mexican paraplegic hope-to-soon-be girlfriend
on the other hand, cares only for purity of heart.
What she sees in me, I have no idea.
My dog Conan and I climb into my 1975 shit brown Dodge Coronet
and drive the ten or so blocks to Maria's apartment.
She isn't home and instead of waiting I decide to come back another time,
which I'm almost glad about because she still makes me obscenely nervous.
I notice I'm low on gas so I pull into a 76 station,
buy a six of Old Milwaukee, fill the tank and head to Crazy Dave's.
When I arrive he's lying on the front lawn under his Camaro,
bare feet sticking out of a soiled pair of jeans.
"Greetings," he says, raising a hand against the glare of the sun.
"Wanna do something?" I ask, holding up the six pack.
"To refuse a beer would be ill-mannered and inconsiderate," he says.
"An unforgivable offense," I agree.
"So how are things with Maria?" Dave asks,
rubbing his dirty hands with an even dirtier rag.
"Well, she hasn't left me yet."
"Quit with that shit. Moving past the language barrier?"
"I don't know. Sometimes I feel like Charlie Chaplin
buying flowers from a blind woman."
Dave laughs and we head into the house.
"Just let her know you really see her,"
Dave says draping an arm around my neck.
"We all just want a witness to our lives."
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