THE PHOTOCOPIER Poem by Washington Cucurto

THE PHOTOCOPIER



The convenience store is rough as the
elements.
So I turn on the photocopier. Its light
snubs out all the frigidity of the place.
At times it blinds me.
(Like the lights of cars
that turn the corner.)

I mix a Fanta with a Quilmes.
I hear no one:
I remember the first time I
kissed you, last summer, by
an overgrown field ruled by
so many crickets.

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