Now . . .  back into the current
                                                  flowing past this quiet room,
                                   back to the leaving road.

               A taxi stops in the middle of the street. I get in
           and am driven to a market where I board a bus
       which moves out onto a road 
edged by trash, blooming fence posts, fruit stands,
    tables, chairs, makeshift open air cafes
        and crowded with cars, food carts, bicycles, buses,
            chickens, trucks, people, homeless dogs and
                overloaded tilting wagons pulled by starving horses

all moving down the smelly gray river
            a hydra-headed serpent decorated with scars and symbols
                        moving always in the same direction . . .

Chinandega—hottest city in Nicaragua.

Chinandegawhere the hen and rooster
                       lie shackled together at the feet of three women
                       sitting at table in the middle of the road.

Chinandegawhere life is how they keep the meat fresh
                       until it's time to eat.