by Lorraine Caputo

Barefoot, skin the color of cloves 
      a man walks down the center 
            of Calle Cuenca 
Gunny sack slung over 
      his left shoulder 
He leads five mongrels 
      on a fraying blue rope 
 
Up on the open-air atrium 
      of the Franciscan church 
            the traditional market has returned 
Woven bouquets of palm fronds, flowers 
      bucklets of choclo con habas, of salchipapas 
This day the police 
      don’t push the vendors off 
 
At the toll of seven-morn mass 
      an officer shoves a drunk 
            down this street 

---

Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 300 journals on six continents; and 20 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022). She journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels at: www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or https://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.