Hospedaje Santos, 7 March 1998

To dangle idly in a cheap
hammock in Managua
is an easy thing, clutching
a plastic bag of Toña against
your chest, wondering about
mountain towns and
short satin dresses and
rows of German panties drying
draped over the smooth steel rail.
The breeze off Lake Managua
is warm but it nudges the
newly swept leaves in
different directions.