Air-conditioned introductions,
then breezy Spanish conversation
fan his curiosity to know
what country I come from.
“Puerto Rico and the Bronx.”
Spectacled downward eyes
translate disappointment
like a poison mushroom
puffed in his thoughts as if,
after investing a sizable
intellectual budget, transporting
a huge cast and camera crew
to film on location
Mayan pyramid grandeur,
indigenes whose ancient gods
and comet-tail plumage
inspire a glorious epic
of revolution across a continent,
he received a lurid script
for a social documentary
rife with dreary streets
and pathetic human interest,
meager in the profits of high culture.
Understandably he turns,
catches up with the hostess,
praising the uncommon quality
of her offerings of cheese.