As the midday heat lays itself onto the city
– wet belly first –
everything seems to moan all at once,
then exhale all the way,
and finally collapse completely
onto the pavement.
All that’s left
of the loud streets and smelly corners are
sleeping men with big brown bellies exposed,
sleeping women with wiry kids hanging from their limp limbs,
and sleeping kids with flies on their noses.
It’s hot and humid and silent,
Except on the little piece of grass
near the muddy banks,
theres a little noise, a tiny little noise,
which has yet to succumb to th’ omnipresent fatigue:
Behind two large and tired umbrellas
with bleached colors and holes all over
and which lay there sideways on the little lawn,
two men sit, closely.
The older man leans in a little,
and the younger chap leans in a little, too.
Wrinkly mouth and big ear meet, almost, and a little whisper travels the rest of the distance.
A fortune takes the leap, it seems,
and may have even born a new dream – there, where two umbrellas shielded it
from your eyes
Because as the city is still collapsed on the pavement,
and dental prosthetics wait patiently for their next patient, in their box, on the corner,
the young chap gets up, eagerly,
wipes the many salty pearls from his face,
bows before his teller and his self, with a smile,
and skips off into the distance.
A good day
to have a good day,
And so this bustling, frantic city closes its eyes, the many,
every day at noon
to respect th’untold, th’untried, and all that’s yet to come
so that when the rain begins,
the chance remains
that it all could actually come true.