Her face is as hard and
drawn as desiccated beef liver.
Chopstick thin legs wobble
under a swollen belly.
with his wild blond Rasta braids askew,
gesticulates at druggies in the street,
proffering a quarter bottle of cheap guaro rum
for another fiesta:
tourists from Hell,
come to visit this tropical paradise.
Crossing the street, she staggers,
catching her balance
on wonky platform espadrilles,
and then drops
her dirty yellow Capri pants to her knees,
urinating for all the world to see.
Oh, señora, do you have parents?
And how do they reconcile
the child they knew with this lost life?
S.C. Morgan lives on the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica. An American expatriate, her writing has appeared in Escape From America, Real Travel Adventures, and Notre Dame Magazine. She writes about nature and human nature—anything that is interesting.
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