Leaving Quetzaltenango

March 29, 2013

The marketplace is amok with Guatemalans

trading fresh fruit liquados, rine-stoned jeans and Chinese Playstations.

My transport is a Blue Bird school bus, Virginia, ’89.

They call them chicken buses here and it is true today

as big netted baskets of chooks are tossed upon the roof.

Their fresh yolks of fear crack down my window

to dry beside my face in the midday American sun.

The roof is for the birds and the seat behind the driver

is the only one’ll fit me. We all have our place on a vessel

not meant for them or I, but here we are.

Nauseating blue smoke envelopes us

as a dozen buses attempt their simultaneous embarkation.

Even as we take off vendors jump on

hawking bagels, chicklets, and paintings of Chucho.

The driver takes an ice-cream and jokes with the vendors

who still hang off the bus stairs as we begin.

There is no hurry. The route is run everyday

and this is just another day to the same destinations.

Why rush when their lives are made?

All there is now is to enjoy each day

meet old friends and new passengers.

To get home safe and happy with a little more in the pocket.

To live as content as I have never been

with all my confused goals, dreams, and delusions.

I have a trip planned and a heading just as they do

and just as they, nothing to do but see what comes.




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