IF IT MEANS
WATER
The sky is the end of day, and the light
is its illumination : two gargoyle men are
smoking cigarettes on the edge of a table.
One spits, hard and fierce, to the ground,
with a loud noise. The other turns away
and looks backwards. Behind them, inside
an Italian restaurant, a short, swarthy waitress
attends to a table by the window. The people
look out, both ignoring her and tending to her,
at the same time. This instant sounds like a
toil, but it all goes easily by, and I watch.
-
I am the one with broken hand, the tangled web
into which my feet are caught, the neck that is
still wrapped by the noose of that rope. I try to
move away, but it only brings more pain. Above
and around me, this second-rate city tries to
prosper or learn to breath, or both together in
2013. It's all too late for anything, it's certainly
too late for that. I hide my hurt with a
coat, and I think nobody notices.
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