To dance or sleep in Buenos Aires—
either one, he said, is better than sex,
and I believed because of his expertise
in the game of backgammon. Sat between decks
of cards, he once beat a man who knew Castro.
He told me so beneath a black umbrella’s yawn
one wet October night. I believed him because he knows
the luxuries of bus tickets and backseats, Don
Juan and Madame Bovary, worn, withdrawn
from libraries. I believed when he told how he’d worn
his grandfather’s wedding band on his own
hand, told the others her name was Lolita, swore
he found her on the streets of Buenos Aires, new
and wide-eyed then, and even she’d believed him too.