Black-glassed, he sat, and spat
And chuckled. I refused
To cringe.

Gas line leak in Limón,
He says I’m lucky. To be here.
He says he is, too.

The battery is what hurt
His eyes, unlucky unlikely
Explosion.

He whittles
A piece of plastic.

A rooster crows and there are many
Roosters,
Caged and cooing.

Tiny testicle-shaped
Papayas hang limply.
Men are under my car.

A little boy
Rides up, acting
Apprentice.

The car is almost fixed
When I ask
What sharp art
He’s making with that knife.

He answers:
For their feet.
We’re off to Panama,

He says. Saturday is the fight.
He thumbs over
His shoulder to where they sit,

Caged and crying.