Se diría que las calles fluyen dulcemente en la noche.*
Xavier Villaurrutia, “L.A. Nocturne.”
I pull my curtains open, lean on the sill,
sweating. Headlights bob uphill toward me.
Randy’s car, rattling tin an hour late,
swerves to park across the road: flicker
through the windshield, thumps of rock radio.
At my door, his glance—more like a jab—
veers off. A softer try lands and holds.
I wince at his bloodshot eyes; he grins,
plucks a joint from his teeshirt pocket.
I yank him inside before somebody sees.
He’s trim, more muscular than I remember.
We sit in darkness at the bed’s edge,
facing the window. Headlights stream in
over newspapers and unopened bills
on my desk, and rise across the room
to climb our legs, glisten up our chest hair,
dazzle. I squint away. Our shadows swell
on the wall behind; they curl onto the ceiling,
connect, then fade. Engine hum, a whoosh
of rubber on asphalt follow through the room
and out. We’re left in dimness tingling
with windchimes and the electricity
we emit inches from each other.
Again, a gleam outside the window.
We steady ourselves for the next wave.
*You might say the streets flow sweetly through the night.
trans.. Eliot Weinberger
Martin Shapiro is a retired librarian living in Maryland. His poems have appeared in Potomac Review, Delmarva Review, Cold Mountain Review, Gargoyle Magazine, Pilgrimage Magazine, Newtown Literary, After Happy Hour, the Thieving Magpie, and other publications.