Hopital Albert Schweitzer Dechapelles, Haiti Poem by Gregory Orr

I pass the old beggar who sits
sucking on a corncob pipe in the shade
of a huge gray mapou tree,
its roots stuck with candle stubs,
gifts for the ghosts inside;
down the hill past the stench
of the courtyard where burros are tethered,
across the parched lawn where kin
of the sick squat beside charcoal
fires cooking rice and red beans;
up the steps and through a double set
of screen doors that never yet kept
malaria out. Mother, I'm coming,
down the halls toward the room
where you lie, coughing and soon to die.
And if I had known, as no one did,
that this would be the last visit, what
could I have brought? All I have:
the sweat and sights and smells
of Haiti under my small straw hat.