I Hear Trujillo

By
Leaves rustling off limping palms
Crinkled, ripped chip bags scoot, twirl, twist and tie in the wind
Along with other forms of garbage that lie mainly in the gutters
Wimpers of pouty whining children tired of being pushed down the street to the bodega to run their parent's errands
Without even some extra cash to buy a stick of gum or a can of pop
The rough patter of a styrofoam chunk kicked around by bored kids with nothing better to waste their time on
A mop squishes in bubbly water as the sixteen year old sweeps, dusts, and mops her aunt, grandma, or neighbors house for an easy five bucks
Old tin cans spit and cough their way down the dirt road packed with twice the amount of people they were designed to hold
The loudest sound that rings in my ears is the sound of the music
Many shoes smacking against the floor in joyful song and dance
Parents, old sisters, cousins, childhood friends, laugh and tell inside jokes as their children dance in the middle of the room
Music binds the hearts and souls of all in the room into one joyful spirit
The politics of crisis fly out the window
Carried away in the dance of their beloved heritage





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