It’s always August.
Before sunup
he leaves the scaffold
and enters the world
of office workers:
the raffles of forms,
the committees
of pencils,
the muted staples.
Now he is free to let
the typewriters hum
their one song,
the ink scribble
its signature on the wall.
He dances to the window
with bundles of paper,
my babies, and watches
how they shower
onto the street.
By the window,
he strikes a conversation
with the hanging ferns:
they speak
of how they got
to this place,
of the stars
who basically are
like children,
of the clock
whose heart is dark.
They confess
their wish of following
the air, of burning
with the fire in the East
while the typewriters
hum and hum
the only song they know.
(Ernesto Trejo)
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Based on Topics: World Poems, Place Poems, Fire Poems, Children Poems, Babies Poems, Committees PoemsBased on Keywords: bundles, scribble, signature, staples, sunup, typewriters, raffles