Among telephone listenings, and hidden cameras,
on a terrace in Germany, and infiltrators:
as waiters, at noon and at three,
—and at nine o’clock and at six—,
a delivery man,
and customers of every creed:
two lesbians, a Bateman and a mystical marriage.
“Wait for me to give you the order,” in a racecourse,
and infiltrators:
white slave traffic in the next table.
I pretend to be betting,
among topics of conversation of poor quality:
these are concerns that you do not you take to a desert island.
And they serve us a couple of Martinis—the man at noon—,
and a couple of misfortunes—the television—,
and mixed messages: Interpol´s background noise.
“Not yet!”, —I ordered them—,
and floods in Australia and droughts,
and indebted states,
and the resurgence of the Fascists,
and “Not yet!”.
And while At last !, It was time !, they play the cards
—passports, lives: girls in exchange for euros—those of the next table,
the Stock Market is red or green,
earthquakes, typhoons, tsunamis,
and black men losing a war,
and I’m still working on this for the rest of the afternoon,
although disasters queuing to eliminate us,
all of these are coming to my “Now!”.
And while the world falls apart,
tell me what the hell I do
(forced voyeur)
on a day like this,
speaking of horses in Möenchengladbach.
——
TS Hidalgo (45) holds a BBA (Universidad Autónoma de Madrid), an MBA (IE Business School), an MA in Creative Writing (Hotel Kafka) and a Certificate in Management and the Arts (New York University). His works have been published in magazines in the USA, Brazil, Canada, Mexico, Argentina, Colombia, Chile, Venezuela, Nicaragua, Germany, UK, France, Spain, Turkey, Ireland, Portugal, Romania, Nigeria, South Africa, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Botswana, India, Singapore and Australia, and he has been the winner of prizes like the Criaturas feroces (Editorial Destino) for short stories and a finalist at Festival Eñe for novels. He has currently developed his career in finance and the stock market.