Poems

The our dog of each day

[It] is like the plastic bags
would have become fashionable for the furnishings/furniture
because for what to remember the dead
and gather dust in the house
 
The spiderwebs emigrate/migrate
and the ants do their thing:
they take the last crumb
of/from a home, sweet home
 
Mother/mum cooks, sweeps, and looks at me
with the suggestive pupil of the plague
and when [she] walks through the garden
[it] is because she goes searching [for] empty nests
 
But when the click of the gate returns,
she smiles, the dog enters and asks us
if today we had left over a little
of our absurd bread of every day.

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