Wednesday, June 25, 2014
La Cucaracha
No one stirred, not
even the waiter serving lunch.
not even two tourists
under an umbrella, or
the bronze statue in the square.
The girls under the
trees, intent on listening.
didn't speak or see
the little black bug.
Even a dog lifted his leg.
The woman in the
cowboy shirt, smoking, didn't
look, nor two policemen
with their shirt tails out
pounding the cobbled streets.
Bent, fussy pigeons
circled around. No one screamed
or squirmed. All missed cockroach,
head down, black wings glistening,
cleaning crumbs from stone.
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