Herd Mentality
Another day teases me out of bed.
From habit I stand in an inert line
outside the food market surrounded
by people whose youth
is hungrier than my bile.
I spend the time before the owner
opens trying to discern
if the protesting sounds in the air are coming
from the MiG buzzing overheard
or from the mirages in my stomach.
At the marina the enticing surf
holds its daily auction.
It lures us like car salesmen
to try our luck & put our rafts
on top of its back.
The most desperate bet
their last dollar of hope
that the tide has reached
its daily quota on jetsam
& won't break again until land.
A bus tour takes more
than their share of photographs.
The lenses capture the labor
it took to make folds in the architecture,
but don't record the stench.
They call our poverty a euphemism,
take their seats under a cafe's canopy
& order pitchers of tea with ice.
When they hold the menus by the edges,
they cut our rations in half.
Weather can become emotional.
Our sodden boat gasping for breath
finds out as the sky closes itself
to those above deck,
& the sea becomes marble
to the lucky few who fought
or bribed for cabin space.
The pockets of idle time
are crammed with mock ennui for the shore
dissipating into the waters like the sugar
we packaged this morning.
There are no memorable poems
to calm our fears with ink,
solely the island's promise to sink.
Every wave we fall over,
the line in the horizon
only snapshots have reached,
brings the rudder closer
to its third heart attack.
In the reflections there are vessels.
Into their vests our failure will fit.
--Ivan Urquiza
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