The Tourism Bus Arrives

On one shoulder of a pseudo sphinx
two pigeons sniff the smell of sun
rotting. The bus arrives late.
The card players of the piazza
turn their head because the tourists
expect them to, or perhaps they seek
that face who never returned home.
One of the boxes come apart, split
everything with the cobblestone street,
and as if until that moment no child was born,
the half naked boys scoop out the shattered
bottle of scent, gather the aroma, undergarments;
they gather the lights and the shades;
they take you to the hotel obscura, and
although they may earn from both the poles
it is a good show.