he turns the corner in a slow shuffle
we watch him with persistent questions
mommy, mom, mother now, 'Juaquina'
crosses herself, and utters,”poor man”

poor men, poor women, with basketballs
hanging between legs and shoulders
who is to say what is natural or not
we still reflect and say, “poor old creature”

he walks by occasionally
but we never saw him disappear
dying asks us to relinquish the dark figure’s
corporeality, at the end of the street

-cec