Point of View: A Honduran Roller Coaster

David Wilmowski

I was a man of ease in the bed of a truck,
Drinking in the view;
Savoring the cloud-capped hills:
Ah, if I only knew!

My friends and I were laughing with glee
At all the games of the breeze,
Speaking Spanish and English like pinball machines,
All happy and well at our ease. 

She stood on my right in a pink-orange shirt,
With a grin like light to the heart.
“I give her my prayers, for healing and joy,
Let nothing tear her apart.”

This prayer was not mine, but that of a friend, 
Whose thoughts I heard long after. 
That prayer would be answered, unbelievably soon, 
 Unbeknownst to us in our laughter.

We came towards the hill of the town of Saint Anne,
As a ship on the top of a wave:
We cut down its face like a shot from a gun,
And were, frankly, exactly as safe.

I thought to myself as I heard a strange noise,
“I feel that this is not right;
No ride is like this, and yet it is one,
For what else would fly like this kite?”

But no ride was this, that chariot of death,
That swerved and careened down the slope. 
Something in me simply turned off, checked out, 
Couldn’t fathom the clear lack of hope. 

Many odd things presented themselves
And are all that remain in my mind;
I noticed them clearly like words on a page.
Allow me to speak of their kind: 

The mountains so blue you’d think that they
Were exactly what the artist might say
Were perfectly hewed and perfectly shaped,
Perfectly pointed and perfectly caped
In clouds like white candy, ripe for the young,
All full of smile and all full of tongue.  
The road cut with grooves like rivers and ruts,
All bumpy and pointed like so many cuts
Of one little digger, carving away
To channel his water to heal the decay;
No matter that cars cannot drive on these marks:
They are made for wilder, more fiery hearts. 
The store that sits at the end of this road
That’s circled with bikes, now free of their load,
Watched and waited, sluggishly staring
Towards the new load the carriage was bearing.
I saw a tall tree that cast shadows and shapes
That looked like sticks, or maybe like snakes;
But it was green and was growing, right next to the bar,
And it was beside this where rested our car.

At last, we flipped, jackknifed to the side.
I flew with the greatest of ease. 
I sat in the eye of a storm of dust,
But still, I noticed the tree. 

I moved about like a victim of trenches 
And was dazed almost as much.
But nothing was broken except for my skin,
And my friends, and the breaks, and the clutch. 

The crowds gathered round like a flock of white hens:
Not a hand was deprived of a job;
The young and the old, the drunk and the sane,
I’d never seen such a mob. 

The first thing I found was that little girl,
In a tattered, pink-orange shirt.
My friend was seizing on top of a bike,
And his face was covered with dirt.

I hugged her tight and firm to my side
And walked her a ways away:
She’d had enough hurt, she’d lost enough peace,
But there might be a little I’d save. 

Late in the day, after some time with the doc
(I looked like Marely from Dickens),
I was on my way out, my mind on my head,
And my stomach beginning to sicken. 

But I saw her outside, and she smiled at me:
Her grin was like light to the heart. 
You sent me to guard her and keep her from harm:
Thank you for taking her part. 

An Evening Play

David Wilmowski

                                                                                                                                              Monterey, California.
The clouds have taken leave,
and are waiting in the wings.

I can see it all from my rooftop balcony seat:

the last few minutes of his performance sink away
under the blue-green curtains of the waves;

center stage, the last few streaks of his soliloquy 
pierce the windows of our faces,
and rekindle the coals within us…

                                                                                                                                             Enter Breeze.
It tickles my ear as it passes by, 
making its way from the back of the theatre.

It catches the curtains and shakes them up.

                                                                                                                                             Re-enter Clouds.

He swings a little on his harness as he’s lowered down,
down, down.

                                                                                                                                             Flourish. He exits.

The curtains close and the chorus of clouds re-enter,
after a brief costume change;
but they cannot help reminding me 

of the protagonist.

                                                                                                                                             All exit. 

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