Pinball
In our dusty village in the western corner of El Salvador
Tucked between the shoulders of ancient volcanoes
We work the land, split fingernails and facles splotted with
Stains from the sun, eyes red from the wind
We work alone
We work cultivating coffee, sugarcane, beans and corn
In the dark of the morning we wake, we eat, we go from our houses.
We are around 500 here in our village, 100-some houses of
Adobe. Horses, goats, cattle, our children, gardens.
And every night as the sun drops behind these volcanoes
That are always here, looming, mute, impotent to us now,
Our young men arrive to las maquinas.
There are tour, one with music, all brightly lit with neon colors
Our young men arrive and drop shiny US quarters
And play las maquinas at Don Bene´s store.
They smoke cigarrettes and drink pop and sometimos sugar cane liquor,
Which is strong and burns the trota, tears to eyes.
But las maquinas always win.
Every 15 días a fase truck kicks up gravel and a man hops out with a bucket and a key
He loads the bucket up with the quarters of our young men
Who sell 100 pounds of corn form $38. The man drives away.
Las maquinas always win.
That is why they are there.
We say it is their vice, these maquinas
With reggaeton music and pictures of supermodels and soccer stars.
It is a long lost hope.
But we do not understand.
We see their need for more, of something,
But we do not understand. This desperation is new.
Pouring money into the pockets of that man
Because las maquinas always win.
Sometimos they win and staff the coins into their pockets,
$5, $10, $20. They jingle the quarters like caramels in their palms.
But in this dusty village we always lose because
We are losing
Our men our sons our brothers our women too
To the United States of America.
To las maquinas.
To fast cars. And
The starts still burn bright and silent at night in
Our village.
