South of the Border

In a Tijuana cat house doorway,
that Spanish matron
so old and frail.
She about folded up and blew away.

She checked your heirlooms,
this jewel inspector;
for things that crawled
and things that didn’t.

On my turn, her hand,
left her sewing be —
and traveled halfway up to me;
stopped & trembled; then turned back.

Her gaze she lifted, looked into mine,
her eyes knew me, alive.
A love, reminded,
I supposed.

I remember
wondering — when I’d gone in,
If the pretties there were kin of hers,
and I was done that evening.