PRESIDENTIAL SIDEWALKS

I fell asleep

with the carrion sound

of the presidential elections.

From my chest

I take the book

I bought on Alameda

after the march.

We were women without name.

We were one.

I rub my eyes.

Rage.

As soon as I say

rage

the alarms

of the street

go off.

A red light

flickers

against the gates.

I close the curtains.

In the black notebook

I write:

Women march.

Speak.

Fall silent.

Below:

Women insist.

Resist.

Die.

No ink left.

I draw lines

invisible.

I lick the tip

of the pencil.

Night ends.

Posters.

Flyers.

Palomitas.

The city dirty

with elections.

People sweep

the presidential sidewalks.

The bad kids

buy early

at the corner stores.

They have neighbors.

They cross the corner.

They get on the bus.

They say goodbye

with affection.

Like everyone

they give the cops

a dirty look.

They live.

The avenues

stretch

bend

become the same.

All the avenues

saw the sun.

Paris Hache