setting

Every corner, even of sidewalk, becomes a hiding place to hug and kiss.
Decked-out policía honk at chicas from their shiny trucks
While a clown—bright, painted face, big shoes—sips out of a bag, waiting to catch a bus.

         The paint was thin so the walls still whispered,
         “LA REVOLUCION ES LA SOLUCION.”
         Someone had been telling someone else, perhaps,
         that resisting change is a change for the worse.

A dog walks deliberately out into the middle of a busy street to urinate.
His nighttime companion leans over the edge of her roof to bark away from her payphone
anyone who might be able to afford a conversation.

         Blasting her music so loud, guarding the clotheslines,
         she better start protecting what’s hanging out to dry from the rain.

Guajalote is out for a Sunday stroll to take in the newest canción
performed by the blind guitarrista and the six year old girl playing the accordion.

         After stopping to rest together at the top of the mountain,
         the two clouds decided to drift their separate ways,
         one west, one eventually east.

Most surely El Che and Maria Sabina would here be crowned king and queen
of the prom, that is, unless a government-issued counting system be used.

         The little lizard, though, had no problem crossing
         through barbed wire at the top of the wall.

Ancient sacred trees from which men are descended
still dwarf colonial cathedrals that were built to displace them,
though these days, the strongest mystical power either holds is shade,
for many forget their hats in their hotel rooms.

         And me? After thousands of years, here I am
         in a museum looking through glass
         at faded colors on isolated figures propped up on pedestals.