Copacabana, Sunday Afternoon

Fluid lines of black and white mosaic unfold
Beneath your feet. The Impressionist carpet.
Youngsters in their toy cars, Peruvian
Trinket-sellers, handball players, volley-
Ballers, families, tourists, zero-eyed
Beach bums, surfers, millionaires and paupers
Jockey for space, of which there is no sense of
Shortage. In the midst of this throng, a bunch of
Scruffy orphans fight over popcorn, squabbling
Like miscreant kittens, a whiff of favela,
As though by design. At a bar table drinking
Jugos of some yet-to-be-named fruit, three players
Assess a gun magazine, calibrating
Kill efficiency against aesthetics
Like true collectors, killer nerds. A youth
Shins up a coconut tree, throwing unripe fruit
At his friends, who pose for the camera. This is
The anarchic, democratic colony of
Copacabana, where every face fits, all souls
Are deemed equal.

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