Bandit Nights

I am tired

of this monotonous,

sedentary afternoon

in which long-faced gentlemen

vociferate their ignorance

of the Afghan war.

Dazed afternoon

under the scorching sun

watching a mangy dog

get up off the floor

unconcerned with the child

who just got shot

by its side.

I want to emigrate,

find nights sharpened by

the owl’s eye,

nights full of bandits

and consumptive whores.

I want to crumple up

like the wasp’s neurosis

on my bed.

Oh, outlet city,

how is it that my verses

are born in this ferocious

village? What empty lines

did I mistake for an oasis,

dark-dense people

full of shady passions?

©  Sergio A. Ortiz.  Publisher:  Flutter Press, 2009.