past what translates as the International Coliseum
of Cockfighting
and the Cosine of Gas, or perhaps that one's poorly interpreted
past the shop with bins of doll parts out on the sidewalk,
heads, arms, torsos, feet
and the woman with potato sacks full of live guinea pigs
which you may personally inspect
you may see a goat on a chair which may be sleeping or
even stuffed
or a woman pushing a baby carriage which on second glance
isn't a baby carriage at all but a sort of tub full of plucked chickens
or the words "I love you in silence" written in another
language in the dirt of the back window of a bus that precedes you along
the crowded street,
at which point perhaps you will suddenly recognize something,
and know where the airport is, and where you are
shmoetry
Surrealism
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