i let him read my poetry
as he flipped through the pages,
i hoped
he wouldn't recognize
the ones i wrote about him

Her hand moves in a back and forth manner
as if she were playing the trombone
But she's really just pulling my greñas
spreading more Brillantina
to make her baby's hair sparkle    
even though its color is nowhere near that of brass

Silence
inside a train
is the only sound
of life outside.

Along a road
a melody grows
flirting
with the countryside.

The river
wide and turgid
flows
to a relentless rhythm.

Sometimes
a flute plays
between rays of sunshine
and whispering winds.

Clouds swell
in a darkening sky
to the groans
of a sombre trombone.

Inside
listen to the rain
watch it slash
at the window panes.