Dinner at the Guatemala City Dump

The chicken truck has not arrived
so ten-year-old Carlos hasn’t eaten today
His father is dead—stepfather, aunts don’t want him
His world is the dump
His brown eyes worry its horizon for the chicken truck

Black buzzards are everywhere
clustered like congregants on an overhanging slab
motionless in the leafless branches of the jacaranda tree
perched atop crucifixes at el cemeterio La Verbena
Red eyes fixed on the guajeros below, they wait for their chance
at maggot-laden beef and not-quite rotten potatoes

I shade my eyes, pull my t-shirt to my nose to shut out the stench
of methane and sulfur and watch as a long yellow truck lumbers
down the dirt road—Taco Bell time
Older guajeros run to place a palm along its side.
Carlos holds back, knows his place
The truck rears up and he watches as the limber ones climb
the cascading boxes, their bodies and the trash
one continuous tumbling motion. There is plenty today
so it’s easy to be patient, but his stomach rumbles
as he waits his turn

At Pangea Antigua, elbows resting on crisp white linen,
I idly fork morsels of filet mignon, avocado mashed potatoes,
asparagus steamed to perfection
The jalapeños béarnaise glides down my throat
in one exquisite motion that, for a moment,
erases the image of Carlos dining amid the trash