San Jose Poem by George Murdock

The ruts of the calle ran through the breast
tear through the canopy on one side
of the copper and red mud road
Serpentine down the muck of puddle and gulley
To the flattened valley of coffee plants and fruit trees
Below the cotton puff clouds and gentle mist
below the sleeping and cloud hidden volcanoes
Where life is an allusion to paradise
reality is sweat and blood
And feckless bread winning
The compas work in the downpour
Repairing a wooden bridge which
has given in to the insistent river
Their eyes hidden in ponchos
remain downcast to the work
We inch along the remaining timbers
Our eyes wide and wary of the breach
of the dancing frothing mixture
a slurry of earth and need
a perpetual dance which goes on to the sea
We stop for beer at the Big Bamboo
adobe and beer, red mud and beer
even on the labels of the bottles
the interior of the bar
gives no hint of the misting exterior
dissolving through centuries
which was once a home
where children ran in circles
holding hands in the rain
their laughter still muted
by the roar of passing trucks
We drink down the dusty mud
and take photos of the mired Galloper
We are nearing the end of this journey
The pictures will tell the tale
fellows lost in unfamiliar crazy streets
in the sprawl of San Jose
lost, trail weary, driving in circles
“donde esta Pico Blanco en Escazu”?
‘no se”