Screens
There is a prison in Guatemala
Tucked behind the mountains to hide
The men born into gangs and slums.
I visited that prison at sixteen.
Inside there were no chains or shackles
But the lingering scent of mota
And the shouts of tattooed men cheering
“Me cago en dios!” as they scored a goal on a PlayStation game.
A prisoner named Churro finished a call on his cell phone
Before extending his ink-dipped arm to shake my hand.
He smiled, and asked if I’d like to watch TV.
We sat down on a broken bed.
Rotting foam flaked off into the cracked concrete floor,
Churro scraped some mold off a soggy sandwich
That would soon become his lunch.
We watched a story about the first iPhone
And the millions lined up to take it to their suburban strongholds.
He began to tell me of his deportation and his previous life.
Peddling the drugs smuggled into Los Angeles
Like he was once smuggled.
The streets juxtaposed
Rich.
Poor.
No visible wall divided,
Each side veiled the other’s existence.
After all, “good fences make good neighbors”.
He paused for a moment
staring up at a broken light bulb
Hanging from a shaky fan, and said,
“our screens are sheets to hide our eyes from shit.”