LOCKER ROOM
Undressing in the locker room, his hair spiked, his speckled eyes
conflicted, his tongue emitting barely articulate sounds as he burst
forth in a back and forth conversation; others hastened to towel off
and depart to avoid a verbal encounter with the inexplicable;
When I asked who he was talking to he was unashamed and sideways
looked at me, surprised that the phantom in his mind was unseen; still
immersed in a dialogue he walked into the shower murmuring with a
certain dignity: 'It's my mother I'm arguing with'.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem