Every morning, and every evening
he is waiting
under the porch, when it snows
or when it rains
but more often behind the Red Cross’s dump box.
He is the smuggled cigarettes seller, so I was told.
Me, I open every morning the door with the four numbers and one # code.
End of the afternoon, I hesitate, the bus has already come, the street with its lined-up houses stretches out, I decide to walk.
Everyone at its post.
In front of me a raven seizes an empty kleenex packet with a peck.