A Sunday

Sunday. March. Sunny.
Skyscrapers hang shadows out.
Street salesman´s day off.
Spends it greasing his tricycle.
Take my rope to a corner.
Tie it up. Adjust it.
See people watching. From afar.
The concierge. The drunk.
The vagabond. The mother.
Thirty seconds.
Five seconds to grab their attention.
Fifteen seconds to maintain it.
Five seconds to share a smile.
And five more to pass the hat.
A man on a bike.
Asks me how many years did it take me to learn.
A man in a car.
Asks me what the hell am I doing in Chile.
A man walking his dog.
Smiles. And I smile back.
A man on a bench.
Sticks up two fingers.
In response to me tapping my wrist.
Walk to the park.
It’s practically empty.
But we set up anyway.
Mao with his whistle.
Herded in an audience.
I swung on the rope.
With shepherds eyes.
And the park was full.
And we were being silly.
The mute sold his birds.
Fatty sold his icecreams.
Baldy sold his balloons.
And the Peruvian sold his drinks.
And sometimes they laughed.
And sometimes they clapped.
And sometimes they yawned.
But they stayed.
And applauded.
And the children filled our hat.
With their parents money.
And we changed the coins.
For Baldy´s notes.
And they told us the police.
Had warned us not to perform again.
And Baldy told us to ignore them.
He has 22 fines.
That he has never paid.
And we split the money.
And watched from afar.
As Banana began his show.


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