One Hundred Years of Solitude

morning cafés to speculate
over what the president had
meant when he said yes, or
what he had meant when he
said no, and even to imagine
what the president was
thinking when he said
something quite different, as
he chased away mosquitoes at
a temperature of ninety-five
degrees, feeling the approach
of the fearsome dawn when
he would have to give his
men the command to jump