Supine

“I am flat on my back,” he said, Although he stood upright And looked all right.

There is in his language A propensity for hyperbole, I thought, as he turned and walked away.

It was an odd way to end a conversation, Even for him whose box of courtesies Had long ago been emptied.

The Plaza de Armas was peaceful when he left. There were just a pair of cinched-in guards, A desambulante sleeping on a marble bench, And some silent sippers at the café tables.

A dark dove hobbled from its flock. Sparks of gold flashed green along its neck, As it tottered from the stone-strewn street, With a crippled claw clamped beneath a wing.

It veered toward me, A flash of fear and warning In its adamantine eye.

I don’t believe in omens, In talking birds, in innocence, Or sunburned visions in the square.

But without them, What would I see? Who would I be?