“I Am Not Mastrosimone”

He carries the stone tied to his right shoe. He lifts up dirt on a desolate street in Salsipues. He steps the stone over here. He puts it there. He keeps carrying it and throws a pipe at a defender who is not there. A neighbor who takes a mate in a lollipop takes it with a glance. “Who will be mad?” he asks, and he fattens another green. He keeps walking in the middle of the street. It’s a cold one that touches you even if you have the biggest c…