En La Soleada Tarde de Domingo...

Parents in drag, sadomasochistic moms
take their twisted dolls out for a stroll
mangled by a radioactive accident.
Two retired old folks make love, going wild
behind the bushes
while the radio blasts
sports talk at full volume.
On a sunny Sunday afternoon in a park in Moratalaz.

A ruthless little angel dissects a bird
while his little sister gets checked out
for an early hair by other ruthless little angels.
A hard-working narcoolympic athlete
with a can in hand and worn-out tracksuit
asks for some cash for an isotonic shot
to kill the craving.

I ask a flirty hippie for a smoke
she says I don’t smoke tobacco
I don’t give a damn which leg she limps on, whether she smokes or not.
I’ve been searching for a while
for simple, clear answers,
I ask my chatty guts
they tiredly respond, "Who the hell knows, dude!
Get a haircut and find yourself a job."

The delivery guys arrive at the ice cream stand
with their souped-up rides and cut-off exhausts,
phone in hand, pants skin-tight.
And tight on their pants
are exuberant teens who love bad boys,
the neighborhood toughs, pizzerias, and blowjobs.
Announcing the sunset of the afternoon in a park in Moratalaz.

The naive sun with a painted smile bids farewell
heading home to see how the day went
as the league wraps up and still hasn’t touched anything.
I think of that sun, of its cursed luck
not even a primitive can save it from work,
somewhat consoled by others’ misfortune
I head to meditate at the cellar.
Thanks, God, for another Sunday
afternoon in a park in Moratalaz.