Roberto’s

Roberto’s neon sign
swings just above the street
beckoning lovers
into his smoky bar.
Disco lights, beer,
lust and Lucky Strikes.

Roberto’s dance floor
sags beneath a tangled weight.
Dusted and worn,
the pine boards brag.
They whisper, scuffed by years
of Southern secrets and sins.

Two have chosen Roberto’s,
blessed by his vacant eyes.
They sacrifice desire—
passing it down the table of life,
leaving only scraps,
fragments of their dark Tejano love.

Lynda Wilson Jones
©May 2, 2000