Old Dyke’s Tale

I’m sitting with a pad and pen in Starbucks,
Staring into space from where poetic inspiration
Often comes as if by magic, when a gorgeous
Butch Latina dyke strolls in to get a latte. In my
Dreams our eyes meet and we smile in recognition,
Nothing more, not cruising, just appreciation
Of the others woman-loving vibrancy.
Though at the center of my being I am 35,
My curly hair still thick and reddish-black,
In truth, I’m more abuela than inamorata
Much more salt than pepper and more chins than
In my prime. I see to my surprise and consternation,
I am invisible to the luscious 40-something woman
As her glance takes in the room. Suddenly her elder,