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Puerto Rico
April 12, 2012
Everything I see is old,
From the chipped paint of iron railings,
To the splintered wood of front doors,
The cracked, dirty linoleum tiles,
The stiff brown grass and uneven stone walls.
There is a scent of metal in the air,
Cold and tangy,
I can feel it inside my mouth.
It wafts from countless bars on every door,
Like they’re trying to keep the rest of the world out;
A city behind bars.
And then, the sight of crystal blue waters,
The smell of fruit-bearing trees,
And the feeling of a mercilessly hot sun
And a hammock made of rough rope.
Suddenly it’s all worth it.
© Courtney M., Marblehead, MA
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