The Parable of Sunlight
It's a rare sunny day,
but the streets are strangely quiet,
as if arrests have been made,
or are about to be.
Head down, heart bending,
I start across the square.
The fountain is dry, stained in dead leaves.
An old man, with the drab, diligent face
of a lifelong student of numbers,
scatters bread crumbs for the pigeons.
I pretend not to notice him—it's safer—and in seconds, reach the far side,
where bodies in the early stages of decay hang like gray rags from the trees.
I glance back at the old man.
He's watching me, and I wonder why
and whether tomorrow
is supposed to be just as nice as today.
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