The roads mirror the sadness
of peeling walls.
Feet hurry and hide
beneath the thin
wings of parasols.
Their stares are not the only thing cold:
the statues,
they'd shiver
if only no one
would notice.
Paradiddles on roofs,
splashes in potholes.
I sit
in a sardined jeep,
thinking of home,
where
mother is readying
a bowl of soup for my return.
After the rain has ended,
the only one left to ask where home is
is the vagrant pushing
his cart along the sidewalk.
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