The man pays
your sterile comfort
weighing people
as if they were pantyhose hats
and each one had a drawer with their name
in this existential wardrobe that is life.
If he's a cop, he's bad.
If he is a poet, he is good and sensible.
If he is poor, he is lazy.
If he is rich, it is because he works.
If he works and studies, he is responsible.
If he juggles, he is good for nothing.
And so are human relations
opening and closing drawers,
without stopping to check each garment well.
That's why we missed him so much
confusing everything
choking the entire river.
As if the poet could not be a wretch.
As if the policeman couldn't be a poet.
As if juggling were less
important than a stethoscope.
I want to smash the wardrobe with a hammer
Let's see if we start in a good way
all over again.