In the town of Corozal

We lived in huts

Of cardboard boxes

And

Sheets of tin.

The well

Is a deep-dug salty hole

Containing a dead pig

Where you should not fall.

Electricity comes from

An extension cord

That you should not touch

(particularly if your feet are in the well).

The tombstones lie

Hurricane-savaged

Tilt akilter

As late-night drunks

Wandering home

Alone.

Scarce a mile from Corozal

Lies Santa Ria

A pyramid unknown

Till recent years.

Near there

To the north,

A tunnel winds sinuously

Beneath the river

Into Mexica,

A path no white man knows.

Deep beneath the river

Is a room of rare jewels and gold.

Though those in the graveyard

Above

Know of it

None will touch it,

For in their simple

Untutored

Minds

They know that it is their heritage.

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