At 3 a.m. you’ll find me
Walking the black cat.
Suicide by bad luck-
Like a roach in his motel?
Here’s what I’d always find:
Waves that pretend to be hurrying towards adventure,
Ending up back in the monotonous sea
With a mouthful of sand.
Or the ants, with their massive armies,
Who can’t even succeed in capturing
That little sliver of honey-baked ham
Left unnoticed on the infinite grass.
Futility, you are the torn string
On the mask of tragedy
The world is clutching to its face,
Hiding his eczema!
Meanwhile, I’m still pacing
Inside my dark corridors,
Ducking under these tall ladders
And whispering into open umbrellas,
And catching a glimpse of myself-
My face covered in cancelled stamps,
My solemn black suit sprouting angel wings.
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