LUCHA

LuchaA man from a nether world
of Pisces
of Africa
in dim light…a blackamoor
sitting up like Neptune in bed
applying oils to his gleaming body
and Bay Rum from Tampa.

“It’s beautiful,” said Lucha. “And this?

“How strange,” she said.

Dr. Onderdunck

Professor Onderdunck
perspiring
disdainful,
having seen the Glory,
knows of the Lord and the evening paper,
held firm in his pale grasp
and Imperial ring.

Her long fingers lifted another page, catching the sunlight from the window. “Where’s Sarah?”

“Sarah?”

“Yes, Sarah.” Not looking up.

Oh, she’s away for the weekend.”

“I’ve heard all about Sarah,” she said absentmindedly, reading.

“Aha!” said Lucha.

“Let me see?” After pulling myself up, right arm jerking the monkey bar overhead, I fell back upon my pillow.

“It’s an epigram. Short and witty—”

“I know what an epigram is,” she said reading.

“Being an epigram it doesn’t have a title. Unofficially it’s titled To a Lady.

Women’s faults are many…
A man has only two:
Everything he says and does,
And says and does to you!

“I knew you’d like that one.”

She raised a long finger, an extra long nail to her lips, smiling.

“Have you written a poem for Sarah?” Green eyes fell upon me suggesting amusement.

“Not yet.”

“Suzy and I are going downtown to eat.” Gathering her purse she rose to leave.

I leaned forward to say Good-bye.

From the doorway her blue-green eyes regarded me coolly, speculatively, then pleasantly.

“I’ll be back,” she said.

Dinner was served, an attendant bringing in my tray. Afterward, I thought about poetry; then about Lucha. She was several years older than me. But, durn, I thought; she isn’t that old.

Sarah was waiting downstairs in the lobby after the Hubbard tank Monday afternoon.

“Did you enjoy escaping me for the weekend?” I asked cheerfully.

“The hell with that,” said Sarah.

Then I told her about Lucha.

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