No one is reporting the mysterious package
left in the middle of the packed train platform
but everyone round the package must have seen
the red gift paper tied up with a thread of string.
No one must get hurt, least of all my Rocio,
breathing like a newborn in her big new bed,
white breast unbuttoned by her pink pajamas
and cupped by the night air’s big warm hands.
I hear the rush of trains in my head, the screech
of brakes that power the new engines, the crowd
driving from every direction towards the door—
compulsive ecstasy—before getting on and off.
Someone has to see the mysterious package.
Someone has to say something to the cops.