She enters the room
silently as a cat does
and murmurs to me
the accomplice to this task
that she wants
Pares Sais.
In this place,
breakfast is our guise,
covert is our goal.
She finds a spot
in the corner,
her eyes on fire,
hunting her prey;
she unpacks
the charcoal on the table.
A look to the left and
her victim she finds.
Without noise
nor haste, she scalps
the broad outlines
of his nape; in sharp glances
she catches the meekness
in his eyes, the sparkle of light
that bounces off the
bones on his cheeks.
As her meal arrives,
she munches a bit
and washes it down with
tea, but her eyes never
leave him and follow
his every pace.
She worries that he does not sit;
rages when he stooped to pick
a wayward paper that he flicks
to the basket of waste.
Patiently, she watches
as he finally settles on his desk;
she seizes the moment
to mark the dots and lines
on the space.
It seemed the paper
always bore his face and
needed only her hand to blacken off
the excess light.
Quick strokes here and there,
then it is time.
I approach him
like a game master at the conclusion of a show.
Poor guard about to end his shift.
Please come to her table,
she has something for you.
He scratches his head,
leaves his bag on his chair,
and walks to her.
Meet Lecaroz, I say,
thank you for being here.
The portrait is yours.
In a few years, you might become rich.
Who knows?
And she shakes his hand,
and they take a picture,
the artist, the subject, and her art,
little man in a little joint
caught by the face bandit
until she strikes again.
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