It’s been days since I’m counting pigeons,
fat, gray, black pigeons
resting carelessly on my neighbor’s balcony
amongst worn-out things.
When I hear them cooing in the morning
as if they were sleeping awake feather to feather
I feel a taste of mold on my teeth.
I would like to throw the paper there
in order to spread the news
fearing of waking up one day
with many pairs of wings spoiling my window,
not knowing what to do,
tongue tied, petrified, clutching the pulse of my left temple.
Maybe that man doesn’t know either,
maybe it’s not too late