a poem

The drunk keeps appearing

to talk about presidents and vaccines,

movie stars hitting each other on stage.

Get him off one topic, he goes right on to another.

There is nothing good in this new world:

The Russians tell better lies than we do, and

He wants to shout out his own lies to everyone

In the pub, his voice a woodpecker bill, drilling into our joy.

He will talk to anyone. Why?

My mother would say some people talk

Just to hear the sound of their own voice.

My avó would whisper, no. They talk

Because they are afraid to be alone and voiceless.

I wonder why the drunk keeps appearing,

And why I hear his voice, always,

shrill and booming all at once, louder than all others.