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International Studies, 1967

On our way to breakfast,
we meet a small pig
tethered to a tree.
We name her Pink
and greet her daily,
until she is served
at evening meal.

On Parque Colón,
at the side of the road,
we pass a dead horse
lying on its back,
legs extended skyward.
Yes, we pass it
every day
until the carcass
has collapsed.

At a barrio café,
we gag on spices
so intense they sting
lips and palate.
we gesture for the server
who takes our plates,
opens the alley door
and slings the food
onto the ground,
where children
scramble to devour
every morsel.


Photo Credit: Stephen Leonardi

international travel, poetry, writing

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