Here, where waves are as tall as mountains

A Third World president holds a press conference

in a busy Washington D.C. street corner.

For a moment, it looked as if a drunk driver

could finally hit her.

Her companion, a counter-insurgency expert,

promises dollars, a warship, and a rescue horde of Americans.

A Chinese businessman sweats at a hearing

cramped with officials who fail even the act of segregating

and recycling, the blame.

He was sorry the ship had to sail–

capitalism has not yet conquered the weather.

Outside, a mob eyes his trepid handkerchief wipes.

Relatives stare at the sickly green walls

of an asylum called the office of Sulpicio.

They’ve begged, yelled, fainted, and fell.

Still hours drip like candle wax.

Clutching portraits with burning hands,

their anger flashes as white as from where small dreams come.