And about the end of his life
finally wrote
the good poem
Since you don't remember
any date of birth
he doesn't know his age
but infers
because of the color of his eyebrows
and the tiredness of his eyes
that he must walk
more or less
in the three thousand five hundred before Christ,
his name looks like an apple
and he swears that once
when small
he saw his soul
and it was
in exact form
a hummingbird
Look with sarcasm at the good poem
that rests on the table
like the little head
of a wild boar.
Not without some regret he thinks that if that animal
untamed and wayward
I would have kissed him before
hands and forehead
Maybe the Municipality would have given him
A Hostel
in recognition of his work
cultural and artistic.
But the truth is that he never managed
this stubborn poet
get off the list of the trustworthy and the list of defaulters
on the light bill.
Look at the good poem that
like good wine
smells on the table
to old streets of solitude tangos
brothels.
Look at each of the metaphors
like an entomologist
and squeezes their bellies
like a child would do.
They already know him in the neighborhood
when he stares at the wind
it's because a bird
He is poking her eyes.
Put out a cigarette in the mud
look at the unplastered brick walls,
he
that the sea dreamed
the vintages the almonds the utopias
is being
he knows
left without a tablecloth.
Crumple the paper
just out of rage
who was going to believe that finally yes
he had written
at last
the good poem,
to redeem his hunger
the rag house
the dead son of insomnia
loneliness the pit
the abandonment of women
fed up with broken shoes
and lentil stews.
About the end of his life
the good poem
It was God's friendly pat,
the chill of a cockroach
in the back.