An attempt at poetry
Morning breaks in misty rains,
as the sun cuts through clouds,
giving the mountains and crumbling buildings contrast.
Nicas walk the roads in their Sunday bests
west, to the cathedral
adjacent to the central park.
It’s Christmas day, and the air is crisp and clean.
Snow and pine is replaced by sour and sweet,
a mixture of sewage and flowers.
I’ve found an edge and roughness to Nicaraguans.
It’s in their faces.
Both curiosity and animosity is in their eyes.
But their smiles,
they’re genuine and hospitable
to the point that they’ll give you everything they have.
(Well maybe not the teens!)
They’ll open the doors to their huts
made of straw, mud and paints of pastels.
They’ll offer beds to sleep,
and they’ll share the last room together.
The gringos get separate beds and clean sheets.
They’ll sell you their black gold,
their gallo pinto and treats
on the street corners
or in the bus cabin — capacity at double.
But when it comes to their land, it’ll be different.
It’s a country of political uncertainty
and social unrest
and after countless revolutions, civil and guerilla wars
they’ve proven to the West
that this country’s theirs —
littered streets, polluted rivers, empty moonshine
Christmas Eve is celebrated like Independence Day,
explosions crack and boom.
Car alarms follow in harmony,
the cathedral bells as the beat.
There’s no reason to their madness.
It’s simply Nicaragua.