Presidente

I pass avenues, boulevards, streets:
Abraham Lincoln, George Washington,
John F. Kennedy, Winston Churchill,
Charles de Gaulle and stop at a colmadito
and ask for a “Presidente.”
“Eso si, en este país Presidente es la mejor.”
I am tempted to respond but instead
take the very cold bottle of beer and leave. 

Suddenly, all I see are barrios and beggars,
graffitis and broken streetlights, children barefoot;
all I hear are the dead walking in-between trees-
flamboyanes, amapolas; and pausing in front of
orquídeas, anturios, flores de caoba,
and I wonder if flowers are what they miss most,
if they are the shadows on my tongue,
wonder as the last crossing of scents pass through—
sugar-cane and cinnamon, alcohol and tobacco
guava, mangoes and oranges—
if all Presidentes create such confusion. 

The ocean’s breeze lightly slaps my tired face
and I see a man with a cold steel bucket
coming towards me selling Presidentes.
I ask for a new one. 

First published in 5 AM.