Guapo’s Haibun
He was single. No kids. No siblings. Parents were long gone. His job had brought him to Madison two months ago. His dating profile said all this, and she confirmed it during their initial chat on the phone. But she did her usual research online to make sure he was truly alone and unattached. She had rented a farmhouse in the Wisconsin Driftless for the summer, on 40 acres, with a stream running through a thick wooded area. Not a neighbor in view. She told him she had lived there for several years, fell in love with the place at first sight, and after a painful breakup bought it on an impulse. How she spent many nights sitting on her deck looking up at the Milky Way stretched across the black velvet sky untarnished by light pollution, contemplating why she was still single at this stage of her life. Yes, over the last few years there had been a few jump- starts regarding possible relationships, but nothing lasting more than a few months. A good man was hard to find, blah, blah, blah… it was a cliché, but it always worked. She took a sip from her coffee, taking in the crowd in the café, thought about all the times she had done this. Her routine was mechanical, she could sit outside of herself and watch it’s flawless beginning all the way through to the end. Soon, the ache gnawing at her bones would come to a temporary end. She saw him standing at the door, looking for her. She made sure to wear the same Patagonia jacket she wore in one of her profile photos, so he recognized her instantly and walked over. He extended his hand and she took it, his handshake gentle, yet firm. Nice. No callouses. She preferred the soft ones. He ordered a coffee, cream with a light shake of cinnamon. The small talk was the usual. “How was the drive?” “Great day for it.” “You look even more attractive in person.” “I’ve never been here before. What’s your favorite thing to do in this town?” Ad nauseam. She made it a point to make eye contact. There were questions in those dark brown eyes. What could he expect? Would this be more than a coffee date? She smelled the traces of desire with a hint of carnal curiosity he was doing his best to suppress. Getting him to follow her to her place so she could show him “her” property would be like taking candy from a baby. Then he did the unexpected. He took out his phone, brought up the gallery of photos, found the one henwas looking for, and held it out to her. It was a picture of a puppy. A Corgi. He noted that while she had bought a farmhouse right after a breakup, he had bought a dog. He took the phone from her hand, searched for a few more seconds and handed it back to her. More doggie pics. It was older now. Guapo was almost two years old. He was a rascal if there ever was one. He had entered Guapo in a Corgi dog race a few months ago before moving to Wisconsin, and he had made it to the semi-finals! Whenever he went to the bathroom and closed the door, upon opening it when he was done, Guapo would be there waiting for him to come out, greeting him like he’d been gone for weeks. She was going to love meeting Guapo, and Guapo was going to love her. That’s why he could only hang out with her for an hour or two, he had to get home to walk Guapo, (nothing worse than a few turds on the carpet waiting for him when he got home) and he had to administer his doggie ear drops since he was fighting off an infection. Guapo this, Guapo that… Guapo Guapo Guapo. She feigned an interest, all the while thinking to herself how this dog was never mentioned anywhere in his dating profile or when they chatted on the phone. Well, that was that. She had planned to leave the farmhouse next week, but now she knew it was time to move on, and fast. After they said goodbye and promised to see each other again real soon, she went to the farmhouse and took down her profile. The next morning, she loaded up her car and the “tools of her trade,” as she fondly called the various knives, saws, and the cleaver her grandmother had given her long ago with a nod and a wink. She moved on to whereabouts unknown, seeming to vanish into thin air.
Guapo’s love language:
shredded socks under his bed,
a warm welcome home.
About the Author: Richard Vargas earned his B.A. at Cal State University, Long Beach, where he studied under Gerald Locklin, and Richard Lee. He edited/published five issues of The Tequila Review, 1978-1980, and twelve issues of The Mas Tequila Review from 2010-2015. Vargas received his MFA in Creative Writing from the University of New Mexico, 2010, where he workshopped his poems with Joy Harjo. He was recipient of the 2011 Taos Summer Writers’ Conference Hispanic Writer Award. He was on the faculties of the 2012 10th National Latino Writers Conference and the 2015 Taos Summer Writers’ Conference. Published collections: McLife, 2005; American Jesus, 2007; Guernica, revisited, 2014; How A Civilization Begins, 2022, and leaving a tip at the Blue Moon Motel, 2023. A sixth book, The Screw City Poems, Roadside Press, is scheduled for release in July 2025. He currently is host of a monthly poetry open mic in Madison (Poetry on Tap, Minocqua Brewing Company: “drink beer and don’t be racist.”) He resides in Wisconsin, near the lake where Otis Redding’s plane crashed. https://www.richardvargaspoet.com/
Image Credit: “Tricolor Corgi” by Electrokardiogram CC BY-SA 4.0
As It Ought To Be 
