The windshield isn’t filthy, but they spray and swipe anyways
My driving vision perfected, four times in three days
The streets of the city, a scramble of cars in a rage
The streets that young jugglers make their Broadway stage
The vendors of the road, quenching the thirst of busy drivers,
If anyone is such, they are the real survivors,
They toil under the sun, in the rush hour heat
Catching at least one car at every traffic light, never missing a beat
Cars flying by on either side, their chosen place is precise
A few dollars a day, the risk worth the price
In a land of few chances, a place with little to be made
They stand out above many, creating ways to be paid
The squeegee kids of Managua, and their juggling companions too
The informal vendors, to whom respect is due
So next time they approach, whether with coin or not,
Salute them for their effort, for making the best of what they’ve got
This poem is shared with the author’s permission, and cross-posted from his blog, Finding the Balance.
