Everywhere, on the sidewalks, in the gutters, right outside my door.
Flourishing in the streets of Tegucigalpa, like leftover confetti from Mardi Gras.
Lining the paths, nestled in the gravel, the broken concrete, and overgrown weeds.
Coloring the landscape with orange and green.
Proliferating around garbage cans, discarded bottles, tires, and take out boxes,
liberated to the acrid landscape around.
Men, cutting back the peels, devouring the tropical flesh, delectable, united to pits.
Dark skin and eyes, accents singing, so foreign from my own.
I stepped carefully, but always a sweet stickness, clinging to my soles.
A bond to the red dirt, platanos fritos, and cattle in the street.
After my return to the wide boulevards, pristine and meticulously clean,
I stopped watching my feet, looking for mango peels underneath.
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