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.
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