The Puerto Rican super next door 
was an outrageous flirt, and I
in a careless way, flirted back.  
I couldn't take a super seriously.  
When he asked me to dinner 
I thanked him but declined. 
He looked downcast.  
Maybe in another life, I said, 
meaning to be kind.
Indelible, the hurt look on his face.
From that day on he never spoke to me 
and turned away when I passed.  
No way to explain,
or swallow back the clumsy words.
When he left, I felt relief.  

The new super was Luis.  No flirting,  
just neighborly talk.  He likes to say 
I haven't changed in thirty years.  
I like to hear it, laugh and say it back, 
we laugh together standing on the street.
I push my granddaughter in her stroller,
Luis leans down to greet her, 
reaches in his pocket for a harmonica,
plays My Darling Clementine.  
She jiggles her arms and legs in time, 
gazes at him in dazzlement,
as if she hears the music of the spheres.
Indelible, the glee that's on her face.
Almost enough to erase 
that other face.