6:30 am and we crowd our way onto the road with
bulls hens women with plastic tubs of tamales balanced
on their heads, pan sellers cycling back and
forth, round baskets of rolls handlebar-strapped, sleepy
lines of factory workers waiting for the bus.
Smoke smudges the horizon, crushed
cashew fruits spatter the tarmac red, a man explodes
nuts from their shells, stirs the coals of his
his wife stacks cabbages, swats a passing rooster.
Suddenly everyone scatters--
a bullet-proof black Suburban
windows darkened roars
up the highway, leaves
one yellow dog rib rack gashed broken
leg still kicking. he
didn’t run fast enough