Walking in the Winds of Boedo

Every day when I get home

from work I spend money

I don’t have on useless books.

Every day I come home from downtown

drunk. History remembers

few men who, in this way, have reached

the age of eighty. I look at the roof’s metallic membranes

sparkling under the moon; I hear

the long meows of cats gathered

on the terraces. I scream beneath the neighborhood wind,

facing the darkness and passing hours,

and I wonder why men

only think about things that torment us.