Eleven dead iguanas lined the road
their insides spilled out onto the dirt
—that was how I knew they were dead.
The only noise came from four, friendly pigeon admirers,
whistling Dixie perched high above the road on telephone wires.
All ten of my toes mingled midst the broken glass, iguana guts and dirt that
mixed together at that spot on the road to form a grand and holy trinity—
it tickled my feet.
An apocalyptic vision crossed my mind but
I wrote it off as just another meaningless harbinger that
appear every so often along Borinquen’s manic depressive roads.
A white cat crossed my path no more than eight minutes later,
as I continued walking along the road and
I don’t put much stock in superstition but
I think I’ve got some good luck coming my way sometime soon.
Right then, sunshine smiles and a seven-dollar pack of cigarettes
filled my pant’s pockets and they hung low,
despite my belt and generally happy-go-lucky disposition.
I was dressed to the nines,
in my skinny jeans and favorite holey t-shirt,
running my five fingers through greasy hair when
she jostled me out my day dreaming—
slamming away on the six strings of her old guitar
underneath the big banyan tree on the beach.
singing her sorrows at the top of her tortured lungs to the ocean;
begging to be heard by no one—simply acknowledged and then left alone with her guitar and the ocean.
My legs felt stilted as I approached her tenderly.
She kept playing as I sat down and
I lit two cigarettes,
she took hers and smoked with pinky a out like a femme fatale and
I knew I could stop counting—
She was the one.
Brown hair cascading onto
the sexiest shoulders I’ve ever seen and
occasionally covering her lonely and piercing eyes.
We sang the blues to the bluest ocean—in love and trust, and
later on, while we watched the sun set, I French-kissed her shoulder, and
the sky was the color of spilled iguana guts.