death on the highway
Lines Written in a Guatemalan Bar
O highland ladies, dark-eyed ladies,
through my heart there runs a dearth—
I am one of those isolatees
with no lover on this earth.
On village streets you shy away
and give my whiteness quite a berth.
Your music is not mine to play;
these are your footprints, this your earth.
While in the coffee shops the gringas
have been wanderers from birth.
Just so am I. And time will fling us
far and wide across the earth.
Beneath the market stalls a parrot
clacks his beak, and shrieks with mirth,
and calls, "Señor, you do not merit
any woman from this earth."
O highland ladies, dark-eyed ladies,
I know well what I am worth.
I'll take the tourist bus to Hades,
there to kiss and lie with earth.
