by Stephen Clark Okawa
lost somewhere in the nostalgia of yellowing perfect youth,
our trinidadian neighbor sits out a dance
92 years old, she rakes leaves with her hands, picking them up
one by one,
snatching them up like dollar bills.
she does this in a robe, and almost always forgets
to wear bra and panties.
what a terrifying look into a wrinkled abyss!
darren nudges me.
“hey, would you believe me if i told you that, 50 years ago, she was a piece of ass?
had long, slender legs, a tight ass, shiny black Cadillac skin?
i would’ve fucked her, but she was too good-lookin!”
and just as darren was getting lost in a moment of his own,
our trinidadian neighbor shook a broom towards us,
said a few mystical words – a curse –
as a gust of wind blew up her nightgown
which, if you asked me or darren,
was curse enough.