(the mammal stretches its pawns
pleading for another chance…
a chance at what? – the mammal doesn’t understand.
it wants what it wants
simply because it wants that.)
We were tiny things
out of cups of coffee,
spilled coffee on this huge tablecloth made of lines going up
made of lines remaining as dots.
(the mammal is lost!)
The trail of spilled coffee leaves footprints on the cloth:
a PopArt painting,
devoid of meaning, devoid of what the meaning would be
if it had any meaning.
(the mammal sheds tears
and breaks down by his own inability to perceive what this is.)
It comes close to the end of the table;
the brown waterfall leaves photographs at each point
of its descent;
it finally lands.
(the mammal gets up,
removes the dirt from his clothes
calls the waiter
and asks for another tablecloth.
the mammal is a fool,
it changes what it has, for he is too lost to clean his own mess.)