A village where washing blooms.

Bougainvillea shouts a welcome.

Where plastic refuse is driven by wind,

to lie in vulgar heaps and windrows;

along cobbled streets.

 

Children with happy faces grin whitely.

They play football well,

shouts of glee.

Never a fight.

Naked babies crawl in the dust,

having escaped mothers cocoon

of woolen clothes and bonnets,

shoes and blankets.

It’s only thirty degrees, C.

 

No flies, they must be on holiday.

Dogs skulk thinly.

Mangy curs, bag of bones, unloved.

Dust clouds the window.

Adios amigos.

 
 

David Garlick, Mexico,  January, 1998