Payroll of Bones (El Salvador)

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

roadside brazier,

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