He stands in front of the living room television, staring at a black screen
His hand crooked on his lower back
His thumb is pointing North, towards the back of his skull
His tee-shirt becomes a domestic territory ready for action.
His other hand holds the compass, a small black remote control.
He presses buttons and sounds come out of them
Like a secret melody him only would know. Maybe this note will make the soccer game appear at last
Or, mistaken, the television will carry him to a shopping canal
The ending credits of a Holiday movie
A morning talk-show where women will laugh in love-seats
Some tragic news
A pedestrian recalling yesterday’s snow storm
He is ready for anything.
Sometimes a corner of the black screen lightens and a tiny guy in me gets up, excited
But the man doesn’t lose his cool. He’s in for the wait below zero, the mirages and the impossible mountains. Maybe it’s only a sparkle of light from the morning snow.
In French we call this a leurre
He keeps staring at the dark void of possible.
Sometimes his hand reaches the back of his neck. His palm covers his nape and when a soft sight comes out of his mouth
It’s a flag of patience.
A refueling key.
He’s in for the run.
I’m reading some foreign woman’s poems
On the couch being him
Looking for paper with my naked hands
Thinking that maybe we’re exactly in the same hurry.