silver birds above the city
cricket calls flooding the air

Madonna and Elvis, the homeless teenagers
their skin luminous under tatters
their eyes shimmering in the translucent
mid-summer darkness of Bucharest

just the two of them, hovering between
a parked Chrysler
and the statue of a Founding Father
with his court of reclining nymphs

the night’s whispers
won’t surrender to words

what might have been
falls behind
shredded under the late
unhurried swish of wheels
driving home

 

 

*The protagonists of Saviana Stănescu’s play Aurolac Blues.

 

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