In our avenues, election posters show various hairstyles

of famous dictators—

and I, at 53

having given up a thought of a child, I— (turn to my neighbors and                            shout, come here!

Come here!

Marvelous cretins!

She just pooped on the park bench, marvelous cretins!

Parenthood

costs us a little dignity)

thank God.

Wind sweeps bread from market stalls, shopkeepers spill insults

and wind already has a bike between its legs—

But when with a laundry basket out in the streets I walk 

the wind is helpless

with the desire to touch these tiny bonnets & hats.