Cinder-block on cinder-block,
Corrugated tin on top,
On a groundwork of garbage.
Fountain of filth from Guatemala City
Flows through the living landfill.
A hundred thousand bodies breathe
In narrow alleyways.
Rotting fruit and flesh,
Gunfire and groans of pain.
Young men stare at nothing, hopeless,
Inhale fumes of rubber cement --
Plastic bags over mouths and noses.
They bow their heads in shame.
Try to stand without a wobble,
Try to speak without a slur,
When talking with the passers by.
They will not beg, but wait till night,
To steal -- The lesser of sins.
Women and offspring sit on cement,
Unraveling old t-shirts to threads.
The multi-colored messy pile,
"Some company buys it -- Americans.
They say it makes good scrub for cars,
In Los Estados Unidos you pay,
And they wash your car!
We work all week for rice and beans."
T-shirt after t-shirt, thread by thread.
.
Children play on cement paths,
Little boys, half-naked -- soccer.
Thin girls jump rope,
And chase in games of tag.
A child sits by a steel door,
Eyes big, skin on bone,
Belly bloated, hair thin.
She watches. Wants to play.
Tries to stand. Gives up.
Special Forces arrive at dusk.
The peace accords are signed,
But not in every mind. Not here.
Some hearts must be forced.
Families hide behind brick walls,
Behind the metal doors,
Quietly on cement floors.
Gunfire lights the streets all night.
Patches of blood on walls and paths
When the sun rises.