a poem in my pocket

in downtown boaco, nicaragua,

from pillared balcony we view

a celebration of woman’s day

while folkloric dancers twirl skirts

and babies cry in central plaza.

below cathedral’s clanging bell,

where thorny sangre de Cristo blooms,

a carnival worker pushes carousel and

smells of exhaust, tamales, popcorn mix;

un perro stretches lazily across bench

as thin horse clops by with firewood

and motorcycles roar past hotel

along steep somoza-stoned streets

under pastel sunset behind hills,

the city lights blink to night music.