Dena Popova
Pedro from the Island of Flowers

In a dark restaurant,
You don't have to have grown fingers
To cut the steak.
Nor to dress nicely with a clean shirt.
You'll cut a piece,
That will fall in your lap,
    bashfully.
And you won't feel sorry
For not leaving a big tip to the waiter--
    You never saw his face.

In a dark restaurant,
You gently touch the hand of a stranger,
While she is touching another hand.
You ask for a cigarette,
You will keep it for later,
Because matches are not allowed.

You leave
When you need to go to the restroom,
and only pay for what you've left.
On the way out,
You touch the hair you would have braided,
The lips you wish you'd kissed,
The fingers your hand is missing.

And step out,
Scared from the sun that hits you
And stand next to a tree, shy
when you start peeing behind it.
You see in your shirt
How many times you've been to this restaurant.
You see you can't light the cigarrette
With your short fingers.
You cross to the middle of the square
And ask somebody to do it.
Before the camel disappears,
You close your eyes,
You see only oranges spilling inside them,
From the sun,
And remember how to stay still
    For hours,
Listening to people that gather around,
Taking pictures of their children,
While crying in front of you.