The hotel’s pink stucco façade –
faded from age and sun and inattention –
guards the narrow street.
Four Americans crawl
from a blue Ford
pushing their way through air
glutinous from just-ended rain.
Crossing the desolate lobby
to a jacaranda-shaded veranda
they sit on dented red chairs
drink tepid Coca Cola through paper straws
eat pineapple pan dulce.
Below them
a languid river creeps past
its thick water the same color as the pastry.
© 2003 Melinda Green Harvey
misc. and so forth 
I really like your writing, Melinda.
Thanks, Ashley. I appreciate your taking the time to read the blog, and to comment.
Evocative of a daily moment in time that you caught and analyzed.
Thanks, Vera. The event that I describe here happened in the late 1960s, and has stayed in my mind ever since – almost like it was waiting to be turned into a poem!