Honduran Hiatus

unused tropes…tamales, tapas, Yuscaran, dead of night outside the barroom,
banana peels, whores in the brothels across the river in the Heavenly City.
Mariachis and Elvis on the jukebox. Not one good woman or one good line
to bring up the dawn. What town? underfoot. Not one…to bed down with, no
see never nancite in the guaro, the small, round yellow fruit soaking the spirits
under the silk cotton trees. Clay rooster on the deck back at the Hotel Iberia.
Somewhere, though, up in the hills, maybe near crazy Juana’s house, there’s
a cock drunk on imported Flor de Caña in the backroom of a poolhall, testing out
a filibuster because he’s not ready for the block, and another poet and another
flamenco guitarist shooting turtle eggs across green felt while firecrackers of
pigeons shingle suddenly into dark-blue patterns across the cobbled sky matching
the balls going down smooth, dark rails into burning, endlessly devout pockets…
somewhere up in the hills there’s a radiant rooster perched on a mile-high
eucalyptus tree relishing the starlight and listening to the mangoes falling on
the tin roofs far away in Managua, and keeping an eye on the giant, leather
frogs, the bronze, dismembered horse, the star-broken starfruit, the guitar hanging
in the window next  to the gun leaning on the sill at the DNI hangout called
the Picnic…and that rooster is also drunk on caña, and there’s Paco and O’Henry
and another poet shooting turtle eggs, etc., he seems to be me breaking open
the triangle.