my dream horses’ provender was my lack of spontaneity.

as the day when I was eleven and found the front door open,
doorcase broken, fridge empty, no cuban sweets on the table,
wardrobe jumbled, no dough under the clothes.
a boy had entered our house. he was a little taller than me,
an old builder’s son, who worked in the neighbourhood,
found after six months and sent to a house of correction.
the day after, we had a workshop at school. I was so happy!...
all in a breath I went to spread the news to my friends,
as if I was getting married and I had to invite them to my wedding.
I would have been able to smile at him if he had been still in,
to pull off my schoolbag in rags too and hand it over to him,
he could have thrown other necessary trifles in it.
I would call him now to tell him how sorry I am.
I would have fetched one more fork,
dribbled together like maradona in our plate,
reeled his eyelashed flashing troubles,
we would have played cards in the afternoon, danced
on old gică petrescu or blues, read mark twain
and given him my cuban sweets at departure.
perhaps he would not have vanished for good.

what trial to ask for when you cannot judge alone?