A plastic bottle and a well-licked
tuna fish can, both flashing topless
in shadows that strobe the gutter
on the street below my balcony.
Between them, misplaced,
My shirt sticks to my back like cling-film
on well-kneaded, well-risen dough;
a languid simile,
but it’s far too humid for cool metaphor
in the suburbs of Santo Domingo
Even the simile doesn’t cut
hear that hollow sound?
Means I’m done.