HE WAS all smiles
as he bore the discomfort of a broken seat,
a whiff of scents combined—
boiled peanuts, and nauseating
pine air freshener—
unfazed, still.
Everyone slept
he couldn’t shy away from the view of
towering squares and spaghetti wires.
Opportunity lurked in a tin can with wheels,
that took him to places:
A five-hour trip
to the golden city.
The conductor shouted “Buendia.”
He alighted from the rectangular tin,
and breathed in the dangerous dark breeze—
Nothing like they said—
neither gold, nor diamond
just grime and smoke
and dirty children.
It was too late to realize
his warm welcome to the belly of the beast.
Josef Brian M. Ramil
