The beat of the music
pumps like blood through the barrio.
It pulses from every open door,
pounds through speakers beside shops,
and is carried on the shoulders of young men.
At this corner a crowd mills--talking,
celebrating, drinking, and
on this day laughing.
Heads turn as we herd past them,
walking close to each other
but staring right back.
The Americanos are here.
Those leading us stop and we bump up to each other,
coming to an awkward halt.
The ice cream shop is closed.
After a moment of confusion, several of us
break off from the pack and
walk slowly into the next store to see
if we can find any here.
Two ragged men come up as we talk to the owner,
their lips pulled back in raw smiles,
their hands extended.
"Americanos", "Americanos"
The words float to us on alcohol
as the men clutch our hands
in a grip that feels as though it will never loosen;
a plea, an accusation,
or a curse.
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