I might as well be invisible.
Kenneth, outside the New York Public Library
You may think I’m homeless.
Because I don’t have a penny or a flat.
Because I have neither wrath nor lemon loaf
inside my hungry mouth.
But I own the leaves raised by the wind,
the hidden stars.
Over my umbrella —I must recall—
all sunny days have rained,
all children’s smiles.

I own the human’s hope and sorrow.
I own the tears you’re choking now.

Along the path,
I’ve seen thousands of people
complaining about their lives,
and I’ve fed hundreds of grateful rats.
Oh, all the rats! All the rats appear to be glad!

Yesterday, I peed at Wall Street,
outside Cipriani’s Bar,
just where those glamorous citizens
on a red carpet are crossing by.
All of them also appear to be glad with their life.
It seems to be as soft as the newspaper
that I usually pick up from the garbage
to wipe the shit from my ass.
You might have already changed your mind.
You might never again complain about your life.

This universe has been created for all of us.
Welcome home!
Even though it’s raining or someone is crying,
under my umbrella all sunny days,
all children’s smiles will always shine

Monica Zepeda (San Cristóbal de Las Casas, Chiapas, México, 1987) Meta-NLP Master Practitioner from The International Society of Neuro-Semantics, author of Si miento sobre el abismo – If I lie About the Abyss (2014; Nueva York Poetry Press, the United States, 2024) and Las arrugas de mi infancia (The Wrinkles of My Childhood) (Coneculta Chiapas, Mexico, 2020; Ediciones El Pez Soluble, El Salvador, 2023). Her poems have been published in renowned print and electronic media in Mexico, Spain, Honduras, Guatemala, Peru, Bolivia, Colombia, Chile, the United States, Italy, Puerto Rico, El Salvador, Ecuador, and Brazil.