She had a Chelsea haircut,
the kind punk chicks rocked
in London of the 80s.
She wore it well,
same with her silence
and anger.
We rode our boards
from the back of the tattoo/record shop.
to the broken bottle beach.
I want to go with her
back to Seville
and see what she sees.
At the Gaf,
we quietly drank coffee,
living in our own guilty parties.
Elvis plays over the juke,
she plays footsy with me,
and I wonder what I look like from her point of view of life.
Later, our hotel hearts
hiding naked from the rain,
never having said more than two words to each other.
But we understood
that lonely doesn't always
mean lonesomeness.