porteno kid

I pick him out because
he's tall,
moves sweetly
and reminds me
of Jimmy Stewart.

I watch him
joke with his friends,
flirt with the girls
at his table.

I invite,
he protests,
I insist,
he yields
with instinctive
Argentine gallantry,

and
bravely soldiers
through the tanda,
apologizing
for all the things
that don't really matter.
He will be
really good
one day.

Blushing,
he escorts me
from the pista
anxious to retreat,
nurse his wounds,
embroider the truth,
ponder the feminine mystery.

I leave a bit
of myself to grow,
to return to
and check on
sowing wild oats
in a foreign port.