One Nite at Escobar Parque when Even Handball Is Not Enough
It’s the summer we were besieged by butterflies.
I dream of calsetines and tapas.
Escobar Parque. The fruit terminal abuzz, and here I
slap this pelotita as if
It on its own were at fault for all my miseries and
all my aloneness.
Tonite, I am weary and wired,
A tussle of ill muscle and mandados.
My Chucks, my chupetes.
Simon. The nopales sigh.
These butterflies are leaves gone awry.