The Thief

To steal the afternoon

       in the cafe

Is not an element of surprise.

But she is a moving bundle of red:

Mexican chiles affluently red

        dangling from her ears,

Scratchy red nails, pointed shoes,

A skirt of red bougainvilleas,

A blouse of pure red as plain

         as red can be.

Her face blushes with radiance

          of August.

Her hair dripping black.

O how softly her unhurriedly walk

           betrays

The secret murmurings of hunger

For cappuccino and black angel 

            twisted bread.

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