That stray dog
You know
That one folks take enough liking to it never goes feral
On occasion tossed a scrap Here and there water left in bowls to lap as that dog tramps in and about the domestic yet without any urge to join
That dog belongs by not belonging
That dog is not ours
We are that dog’s
As he stumbles on the bus he proclaims to the driver, “I drank her under the table!”
How does one “drink” an other; consume this other? What role, the table, under which his Passions play?
I do not wish to forsake this one or this other, though I swear I do not know them. I only know he stands, arms outstretched, holding bus stanchions across the aisle in cruciform stance.
I tell myself it is so he will not fall. What if it is so he will not rise?
The two are within a block of each other near the northern edge of downtown. Whether in cahoots or competition, both stake a claim on their respective stages.
One, a conductor at her podium who stands mid-intersection directing nonexistent traffic. What plays in her head is anyone’s guess.
The other, a fly fisherman whipping shadow-cast figure eights over the empty street; determined to find meaning when there is always a catch before his release.
As cars arrive to nudge both experimental theaters, a dance ensues to the tune of one long echoing symphonic honk.
Twirling, arms waving, she casts a spell over her orchestra pit to silence the critics.
In turn, determined to nibble at traffic riffles, he continues casting over the damned stream.
Being between two showpieces, I watch both while more cars arrive, increase dynamics of horn blow crescendos, then inch in, threatening these dominions with a thousand pounds of steel.
Reluctantly, but with impeccable choreography, they relinquish their performance sweeps.
The man squirms at the fringe of the Farmer’s Market, claims his cranny, and wild smiles a grimace.
His quarrels turn to spittle across the sidewalk. Viscous, thick as lubricant, his words drool from the corners of his downturned mouth onto the front of his threadbare shirt.
Leaning forward he defies gravity, hovering face-down as if feet are locked in concrete. Jerking violently, he straightens then slides down the side of the building that guards his back until he sits in quasi-lotus.
“Tourniquet” he mumbles.
Just that one word escapes as he pulls a grimy bag with a smiley face over his head.
Aprendizaje paso a paso, grabaciones de voz para compartir y recordatorios de repaso.
