There is a tree whose foot-long bean pods
invite me to wonder
at its native name.
A tiny chihuahua peers out with wide, impassive eyes
from the folds of a faded blue hand-towel.
In the early mornings, they hang fresh fish from poles
and peddle them to drivers
at the stoplights.
Tourists snap cameras at Jesus with his arms outstretched–
a smile brightens the tanned face of a man
with whole coconuts to sell, while
somewhere
a blue-white cow is taken to slaughter.
Rotting mangoes lie flat and flaky on a sun-baked sidewalk;
the smell of fried bananas floats, delicate
in an overwhelming kitchen. The baker snaps an order to her charge
and worries into the flour.
A man with a withered leg crutches his way along the aisle
of a bus, praising the Virgin Mary as change clinks
into an open cigar box.
