Suspicions

This night had many dilapidated stairways, doors, walls,

suspicious steps, creaks, crawling, low-tone words.

You couldn’t dare touch the door handle to enter,

        to exit.

The hand of the dead man was glued on the handle. Soon

after the recess bell was heard, the steps distanced, and a key

that fell on the tiles, fingers searching the floor,

the two shadows that urinated by the fence, the car running

       along the other street.

Then, nothing. Silence. Three men came out of the stoa and

walked, entered the hall, filled with smoke, cigarette butts,

napkins, and black highchairs; those three who weren’t called

to tonight’s meeting, what had they decided? Against them

or on their behalf? And had they used that white paper which

they, due to extreme tiredness, had all signed one night?

They gathered the napkins from the floor, put them

        in their pockets, then they left

making sure they didn’t move any of the mixed-up chairs.

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