Talking in a quiet street
of Madrid is a mistake.
Your word might drift up
through an open window
to a young whore
who starts to sob.
“Now,” she cries,
“Now the streets are filled with dogs.”
Her client withdraws
remembering what he has heard
about hot climates.
As he hurries downstairs
his coat catches on a nail
leaving a small piece of green cloth
pointing to her room
like a flag with no country.