If, by the grace of God, I was for an hour Omnipotent

I’d fix the unravelled by the wind hair of the man who

           waited in the lobby

exhausted and who descended the stairway like death

           with a thousand mouths.

I remember an afternoon, the baby stroller under the trees

the young nanny chit-chatted with the soldier, I went

close; the baby was already a whore in the room 17

the soldier was killed in one of the previous wars

the nanny was stealing bread from the old folks home

and the baby stroller rolled down the road with extreme

speed so much so that the hanged man lost his shoe

and don’t forget the night is too long, no one passed

without some mercy and using a napkin you covered

the wrinkles of the childless closet.

Therefore I stopped reading the classified ads, since to be

fed is equally unethical with the fooling of a dead man

and sometimes the basement deaf woman was hitting

           the bucket endlessly

until God cracked and was heard.

The explosions intensified, piles of dead were carried

           on carts

mortars uncovered prehistoric bones and this chair

           abandoned in the middle of the road

was as inexplicable as you and I;

then everything vanished, the hotel owner with bird eyes

           asked for the names

or scared away the flies, boring things to pass the day,

until forgiveness, unknown to the skies, was found,

death that hears better, a coward more selfless than all

of us and, oh time, old worker of the loom, leave a good

          story for the end.

Now, before I leave, I’d like to leave a few matches on

          the side table

for the person who scared me in the street, to drink a coffee

          with the passing dog

who won’t give me up, to give sometime to the girls who

mother Teresa reprimanded when they delayed in their


to cover my face with heavy withered fabrics, leaving

          one of my eyes uncovered

like an absentminded hospital.

If I were a woman I’d lean sorrowfully on the glass

or I’d have thrown my wedding ring in the sewer. Yet

I’m a man and with a poor biography I have to prepare

         a just departure.