Out of the sand they come
crowing like cocks in the morning sun
chanting their strange, melodious hymns to food:
Tortillero, Helado, Maní tostado,
and the children, burnished and thin
scurry to meet the musical men
and the women, smoked in their shawls
float on brooms behind them
and the beach is never still
with the halo of hunger overhead.
None at this time.