I heard them before they came into view.
There was more to this island paradise
Than postcards and pinacoladas.
Compassion and exasperation met on the
Battlefield of a four-lane road. The law
Said: "Go!" but traffic said: "Stop."
They waited for red lights and swarmed
Over the vehicles with need too deep
For tears and too strong for words.
At least a score scurried away at the first
sign of the local policia. One window in a hundred
rolled down and the hand that
reached out and offered dinero.
And then I knew that I would not recall the
Waterfalls and night life, or even the beaches;
But I would remember the beggars of Pueto Rico.
12.5.1989
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