One crosses the street, ribs
like ladder rungs leaning
inside him. I want to climb
to God, ask and ask.
The streets are full
of crushed plastic bottles.
The mountain air has left us
winded. On the coast
we sit in open huts, wear
flip flops to the shore,
each grain of sand a small fire
dogs run across. Desperate
with thirst, one sips from the sea.
They are the poorest of the poor,
tails down, unable even
to pour themselves water.
"We are all stray dogs," someone says.
But we're not.
I fill a small cup, set it before one
who drinks without stopping.
