She asked me in cornet Spanish if I were a virgin or a lion. I thought she wanted something more personal than astrology and my place in the stars.
The psychotherapist next door could probably answer that question better than I could and solve it with the red, green, and blues they offered my uncle.
He is in Texas behind wired glass and making rosaries out of crucified trashbags. They're traded for cigarettes and minutes on a cell phone to call a lawyer or some girlfriend that works at a diner or as a dental hygienist.
I'm in Bologna peeled off a seat on the Florentine high speed and standing on a balcony watching sparrows hop like kangaroos from window to window. I don't pray and I can't smoke so my uncle have nothing to say.
The landlady, with her benign tumors beneath her lilly blouse, tells me about the blind men in the other room and how she leads them out every evening.
She must read them their horoscopes.
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