Puerto Madero; Reserva Ecológica de Buenos Aires; jueves, junio 04, 2009
All along the concrete border between hot
pavement and dry pampa, thin white
clouds of chori-smoke and carbon roll
over the heads of puffed-up pigeons huddled
on the balustrades. One bold, samples and pecks
at a bowl of salsa criolla, only one in a buffet
of condiments outside nearly every carrito,
lined up like prostitutes on the esplanade:
Su Parrillon, CHORIMOVIL, Tu Parrillada.
Opposite one, a stencil on a concrete
pole states: YO DECIDO, emblazoned on a big pink
ass. Typically, Mi Parrillon is closed.
Farther along, middle-aged men paddle
a fluorescent ball back and forth, on a dirt
court, trading laughing taunts and jibes,
pausing for a sip of mate after every
short shot, after every cursed fault scatters
the chalk-line . Past it, a black and white dog writhes,
exults in the good, funky
smells in the grass. After his roll
he shreds it to pieces, and swallows.
I take a break, smoke a menthol,
watch the overdressed gay
men file past me one by one, in
and out, alone among the anonymous
green. Wiping my mouth clear of chimi,
I watch a skinny, shirtless boy
in trackies jog by. He winks, happy
trail sweating under
a daylight moon.
Featured photo by Slaff, Creative Commons license.