Ecuador
by Donna R. (Cole) Carter, copyright 1979, all rights reserved.

The slender eucalyptus tree
The guys that say "my loaf" to me

The little stores lining the street,
The corner lady frying meat.

The beggar man playing his drum,
The sidewalk cracked, and then some.

The small, matchbox "Andino" truck
(in them you always trust your luck)

Children playing in the street,
Dirty, smelly, in bare feet.

Guys wearing tight pants, high heels,
Wond'ring how being tall feels.

The roasted pig that's in the store,
It's head and all are at the door.

White washed walls with signs glued on
Stray dogs lay dead in streets 'til dawn.

The bus that's bursting at the seam
And slowing down the traffic stream.

The smell of something frying hot
Over in that lady's pot.

The rains that flood the underpass
The droughts so dry they shrivel grass.

The chittering of birds - all year
The noisy roar of trucks so near.

The big quebradas, long and deep
The quiet moss where rivers weep.

The fresh dirt smell of earthy caves
The candles that everyone craves.

The bread-dough dolls from Calderon
Six numbers for the telephone.

The Cuencan pottery so fine,
I have a piece of it that's mine.

From paved highways to muddy roads
And trained horses to croaking toads,

This and ever-so-much more
Will make me think of Ecuador.


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