I have a sprained ankle
and for some odd reason
old-timey jazz/swing is playing
on a loudspeaker nearby.
It's the end of winter in Santiago;
the sun feels nice; I'm waiting
for the taxi service to take me to school.
I hop around like a backwards kangaroo,
as if I were trick-biking
with no bike: one, two, hop.
Where am I going with this?
I'm as directionless as I am
with this sprained ankle.
The pressure of the cast
makes a strange combination
with the tinny music, old horns
scratched by record needles
and time in tandem with the throbbing,
a tango now:
one, two, hop-hop-hop.