the roadkill don’t have fur, they aren’t even dead yet
early sunday morning and the streets are littered with corpses
pulses intact, mouths askew
unnatural drool-like vomit in puddles under snoring faces
men with white shirts & straw farmer hats tumbled aside
menial labor temporarily forgotten
they litter the curbs & streets
cars & horses swerve to miss these alcoholic speed bumps
this happens every weekend in gracias, honduras
aptly named, thank you for such imagery
a reminder of how beer & guaro can waste a life
leave it limp on concrete
Tag: Central America
Daniel W. Polk 