A bucolic poem
The river dried up because it doesn’t rain.
The road that connects the countryside
to the city was turned to pieces
under the heavy showers
back when it did rain.
They closed the only grade school in town
on account of no more children,
say the elders of the land
shriveled as they are like when you enter a river
and stay in for too long a time.
While killing cockroaches in the bathroom of an apartment that will never be her own, she notices she’s menstruating. As she enters the shower, a drop of blood stains a lotto ticket on the floor by the wastepaper basket.
“The fact that it’s already at 24 million is a sure sign I’m not a winner.”
In the same way
that credit card bills
come and go
that the noise of the collective
generator leaves us deaf
that the mortgage bank
threatens to take away
all private property
—this leaky roof—
the most public
of all properties
—which belongs to me
tax free—is enough