Stuck in La Fortuna with a broken motor cycle
By Hans Jorg Stahlschmidt
Some mean devil knocked over
a gigantic bottle of bleach last night
now all calles, casas, even the few mulberry trees
are an iridescent white that burns my eyes.
I wait for the Blue Bus Line
the one going inland into cooler mountains
but everything here goes into the dried-out creek-bed
lovers, tire tracks, urine.
I swipe the flies off the tortillas
call for more ice
but nobody comes, nobody cares.
In the concrete courtyard
the innocent dreams of children shrivel
while the parents drink from Tequila bottles
or masturbate behind blistering shutters
in darkened rooms, where even Jesus looks
down unmoved from a gold frame
between candles and pink plastic flowers
The sun screeches along the cracked walls
everyone is alone,
old failures crawl along the walls
with the lizards and a lone scorpion
sleepwalks across the floor
all traffic has stopped
the promised bus doesn’t arrive
there is a faint yelp of a dog
too weak to bark or attack the shadows
that move excruciatingly slow across Plaza San Miguel.
Many more days with coke and ice that melts
in an instant and my skin turning
to leather hanging loose around my bones
and my insides disappear
and I am unsure I will ever be found.