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.
Chinandega—where the hen and rooster
lie shackled together at the feet of three women
sitting at table in the middle of the road.
Chinandega—where life is how they keep the meat fresh
until it's time to eat.