I saw how you looked at her when you walked through the gas station
and pretended to need chips or beer or chips.
The rows of plastic glinted like jewels for her.
Her hair is black and so dark it reaches some other place,
far from here in the spicy, Spanish sun.
I saw you lean in to take the change and smile,
the way you always smile, the way you've always done.
And I felt sorry for her, for her wasted beauty and warmth
in a cement corner away from the rest of the bathers.
If I adopted her I would name her Ramira or Yasbella,
not Selene or Camila or even Jasone.
I would watch her eyes grow green,
study how the street lights reflect in them,
different parts of the night.
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