Solo (Con Las Nubes)

In the plaza alone am I, Along with the mud puddle From yesterday's rains and the Cold gray concrete made colder By the steel blue sky. The pines Over there bend under the wind Like old gray men reaching for the Remote. A bus drives through like A yellow-gold-black streak of lightning, Delivering their parasites and boldly Stepping through the mud puddle. The Crows eat wild onions for breakfast And wait for their nests to burn and their Lives to end like me.