Rio

Looking down the dirty streets of Rio,
there is a line,
and below it
lie riches,
color. 
From my 
home, 
I look out the pane less
window,
down onto the 
bright houses of
blue and yellow,
stucco walls
and porticos.

Always electricity,
glowing homes down the hill
in the night.
Here,
only the sounds of
the drunken homeless,
the hopeless.
Somewhere
near, a television catches
static.

The electricity is turned
off after 10.
But I hear
the song of freedom
even after the 
television stations sign off
for the night.

The burlap of a curtain
breathes in the hole
in the wall that is
window.
The night breeze sighs
on my cheek.

Tomorrow the slum
will awaken
full of peddlers
and gossips,
children running barefoot
on the dirt paths.
Chicken will mill in 
muddy yards.

And soft,
across the breeze,
the sound of another life
blows upwind
to plant that seed in
our minds.

Down the road
there is another world from
this one.
Full of birds
and radios,
children with new shoes.