Mi perro callejero
Much I loved that quiet short calle. With a yellow bitch that sat in the same spot, in front of the entrance to a stucco apartment building, looking down the street, straining her pointed scruffy ears, ignoring the passerby, you, who every night walked those two short blocks before he would reluctantly turn the corner. Did the bitch wait for her owner? Was she abandoned? The city was full of the so-called callejeros. But always there, as if glued to the same spot. In a previous life you think you were born here, perhaps, because something in you recognized the way the soft evenings fell with their smooth pinkish glow from the Cordillera, and, then, you remember, one evening —the guardian of the calle sat there no longer.
June 2012, Santiago