HILL TRIBE, PART II

Dirt blankets a pillow
and sheet on the bamboo floor.

Roosters crow in random sunshine
and bold black pigs
root through the trash,
laying claim to their kingdom.

The old man’s mouth
drips blood
of crimson betelnut,
staining black his teeth.

The young man’s teeth
gnash in anticipation
of the next
amphetamine injection.

Who gave the black goat salt?
Now he won’t keep
from the kitchen door.

Who gave money
to the hill tribe youth?
Now they know they are poor.

And on through the trash
the pigs still dig,
retrieving dinner
from the plastic chaff

while kids play and sing,

“This is the day
the Lord has made”

on the dusty road.