I’m not the pigeon
tied to a park bench
with fishing line.
My dream confused me
for someone else.
I’m more like the child
tear-less and unconcerned
who scrapes his knee
near the fountain
while chasing a ball
or the woman
high-heeling groceries
across the plaza,
a bundle under each arm.
The difference is clear
and I wonder if my dream
hadn’t tipped toed out
the mind of another
and into my bed
a mistress of the night.
This explains the half-joy
of prohibited passion
as the morning sun
exposes empty sheets
and the fact that
she left forever,
on the refrigerator
not even a goodbye.
LOCATION: Florianopolis, Brazil
