Way in the back
cigarette clouds
the after hours Portuguese
talk around pitchers of
dollar drafts stabbing
out smoke after
smoke
they call me
mama
mama, from under
baseball caps
from cities none
of us
have been to
Carlito he’s twelve
or maybe
fourteen
they are pretending
to shave
his chin, smooth
as glass
he says, in English,
I’m old enough for you
mama
the window’s gone white
from drifting
snow
nos somos furados aqui
I say back
No comments:
Post a Comment