Count the corn

The anchovy, for lunch,
weighed like bronze
in the messenger's belly.
In his mouth there was a taste
to fungi and gasoline.
He forgot to see the deadline
and now the gastric juice
was to solve.
Because he had to work
spade and lime, like all
the other boys.
Each of them, another
cloth puppet under
the volley of orders
and cries of the rodent,
the one they called chief,
always on the tail.
He felt ridiculous
and out of action, like a rift
in the mold of a cube!

PAR