costa rica

costa rica

her wrinkled brown skin seems to reflect

the green of the tropical leaves

and her disappointment

as she pushes a t-shirt against her washboard;

a t-shirt printed with Old Glory,

the image cracked

from overuse.

in the town,

advertisements for the Generican Dream

are plastered on shops like garish gift wrap

obscuring the rich papaya paint underneath.

if only her weathered, softened hands

could have captured a scrap of a

New World

new monotony

new misery

that false promise

that had been so enticing for so long.

she could have almost tasted the crisp air

conditioning

could have almost taken a bite out of that Big

rotten Apple

could have almost seen the green

back

in the leaves outside her window

she thinks

before she goes on hoping Old Glory might come clean

as ads for Coca-Cola dis-

integrate

in the luxury of tropical rain.