04-02-2026, 10:27 AM
On the Other Side of the Favela
The boy with bronzed skin
sits quietly on a hot slab.
His arms bear marks of fruit-filled crates
with fair trade stickers.
His calloused palms crackle
like rosary beads.
When he looks up, through
the concrete tunnel where
his aunty's bra flaps
like cartel flags in the wind,
a boy his age looks back
with promises and shoes that shine.
Hurtling down the winding paths,
he stubs his toe on stone.
Loose bricks he grips and climbs until
the slumdogs swear they’ll shoot.
He reaches out his fingertips,
but down he falls, back to the pits.
The boy with bronzed skin
sits quietly on a hot slab.
His arms bear marks of fruit-filled crates
with fair trade stickers.
His calloused palms crackle
like rosary beads.
When he looks up, through
the concrete tunnel where
his aunty's bra flaps
like cartel flags in the wind,
a boy his age looks back
with promises and shoes that shine.
Hurtling down the winding paths,
he stubs his toe on stone.
Loose bricks he grips and climbs until
the slumdogs swear they’ll shoot.
He reaches out his fingertips,
but down he falls, back to the pits.