Poetry 4

It was a cool August night
probably a Wednesday.
Like every night those three weeks,
my head was swimming
in a haze of beer, Brazilian rum and smoke.

A little boy,
begging in the square
came to my table
as I slurped down a caparhina.
They always said to be careful.
Children may panhandle for drugs,
or for their parents' drugs.

But I had just bought two pairs of earrings.
It's really cool how
a traveling souvenir case,
floats from table to table.
Drunken tourists, students
buy cheap gifts for their mothers and sisters.
I said, "No reais. Comida."

He took me by the hand to an acarajé stand
and I paid no more than a dollar
for a hot treat.
I handed it to him,
so proud of my own innovative
alternative to a handout.
"Obridigada,"
he thanked me genuinely.
A mustard colored smile
and cocoa eyes watched me
as I walked away.

Feeling like I had done my part,
I walked back to our table,
full of beer bottles, plastic cups
and cigarette butts,
and continued my night.

Just a half hour later,
the boy came back,
rubbing his belly happily.
I sucked some mix of alcohol from a coconut,
and laughed.
How cute the natives are
with their precocious children
and affordable handmade earrings.

How lucky we are,
the booze and cigarettes
are so cheap