Supine
“I am flat on my back,” he said,
Although he stood upright
And looked all right.
There is in his language
A propensity for hyperbole,
I thought, as he turned and walked away.
It was an odd way to end a conversation,
Even for him whose box of courtesies
Had long ago been emptied.
The Plaza de Armas was peaceful when he left.
There were just a pair of cinched-in guards,
A desambulante sleeping on a marble bench,
And some silent sippers at the café tables.
A dark dove hobbled from its flock.
Sparks of gold flashed green along its neck,
As it tottered from the stone-strewn street,
With a crippled claw clamped beneath a wing.
It veered toward me,
A flash of fear and warning
In its adamantine eye.
I don’t believe in omens,
In talking birds, in innocence,
Or sunburned visions in the square.
But without them,
What would I see?
Who would I be?
