straight shot COSTA RICA

I watched all the houses through the open window of the bus. seat 49 on the way down to the panama border, in a glamour coach. the houses on the carribean side turn from stucco and cement to one room wood boxes on stilts. I want to live in each house, and breathe the air in there, sampling if its hot or stagnant, how the light is, feel trhe breeze from between the stainglass skin of peeled tree bark. I see a fan in one hanging from the tin roof on bare rafters, strung up with a black and orange cord, the back door a straight line to the front, no windows just hatches to catch people floating up like banana plants, ghosts from the precios few left. another house has no wall from four feet up, but a white curtain is knotted and hangs to the side where a black girl watches me through the bus window, before I dissapear away from her. how cool is it, how many fingers does it take to cover her lips and make her smile, how many quarts is the biggest pot, does the floor creak, can you run a light all day, or does the juice surge and flicker, who lights the candle, who watches the door, who says goodnight to the children that sleep under the floor. a pink one with a black dog, under those red flowers that you see at the tropical section of the market, a mango tree and a spotted horse so old his scabs have grey hair, another bleached root frying pan porch where an old man wants to know about me and la, and why I left, and why I cant go home yet, and where brooklyn is in relation to the statue of liberty. “how many people down there” the window asks, Ive forgotten about brooklyn and breakfast with my sisters kids, the only family I got, that and the streets with the old peoples names, clinton and vanderbuilts and saint james. “dont forget about saint clifton” theres no saint named clifton I tell the muckracker under my lid, clifton is an honorary saint, clifton holds the door open for me, when the road ends and I lose my wind. clifton, ten thousand square feet of brick and tar, has a 50s espresso machine on the rear second floor quadrant, the same location of the pinned white curtain, the creol face where my dishes are, and the black dog howling where I keep my forks. the air in the bus hasnt changed yet, but the sea is coming, and theres a town called puerto viejo after the next one. Ill sleep there tonight, in a wood slat box, with green tiled floors painted like palm water bubbles, tartan cotton plaid tops over a white and blue porcelain fitted, and a rice shade doing laps around one bare incandescent bulb. “thanks for the hospitality” I say to the patois pidgeon with bludgeoned hips and a forein smile.” tell me who taught you that, and I’ll tell you where Ive been”. the girls weight shifts and she leans against a wicker chair with a worn seat, on a painted covered porch with little finials painted turquoise like her eyes every 16 on center. “i seen you sir” she says, and withought looking back she turns around, back to the house, back to the back door, and the straight shot under the fan, and dissapears.