Two Weeks in Honduras

On the cove north of Trujillo,
we splurged for a resort where
I first learned different cultures
have different expectations
of that word.
The bed had someone else’s sand
under the covers and
the bathroom door was only
a shower curtain allowing us
to experience with more than one sense
each other’s intestinal responses
to the previous night’s Plato Típico.

But the fish the old woman cooked
smiling without any words
whole in front of us in the hut
on stilts over the lake where
it was caught that very day
served with vinegary peppers
and fried plantains remains
with me more than most
meals I’ve spent too much on.

And I still think about our brief walk
across to the village in Guatemala
where we watched
the loud men gamble with dice
and bought tamales wrapped
in banana leaves from the young girl
who brought them in a basket
from her mother’s kitchen
for a few coins that her father
will lose again here tomorrow.