PUBLIC GARDEN
There is some humidity tonight. Women with baby strollers
are headed towards the exit. An old woman with her cane —
look,
as if she has remained out of spring; her cane is as if it
hits a door that will open for her. There is always something
shut when the trees bloom. The out of rhythmless step
of the limping man
matches the crushed afternoon with the scattered clouds.
Voices are heard
from the far away square. The city buzz, distant and damp,
reaches up to here to the park benches. A bird chirp, that
has arrived late, bounces over the trees, as if they chisel
a small cross in a distant marble yard of the mason. Soldiers
pass by in groups.
They don’t hear; they curse, scratch themselves with
their hands in their pants pockets. Each evening passersby
stare at the ground as if they lost their keys
or search, with their eyes poked out of their sockets,
inside other eyes,
they search for a familiar person among the crowd, for
their body. They don’t find neither the body nor the person.
Nothing.
Libros Libertad 