I thought of you two today,
about when you were kids
and we lived on Juan de Vargas Street
in Miraflores. Surrounded by buildings,
we used to cross two busy streets
to get to the Plaza Triangular
where you would run around
or ride your tricycles on the uneven pavement.
A huge statue dominated the plaza,
some Bolivian military hero
--Bolivar perhaps, yes, certainly
it was Bolivar—mounted on an antsy
but stationary stallion. The horse had one hoof
raised, head lifted back, while his master
held the reigns tight, not quite ready
to plunge into battle. The tail was tense,
high in the air. We dared ourselves
to sit on the base of the statue, just under that tail.
We held our breath and waited to see
if any cement turds would fall on our heads.
They never did.
But they could have. They most certainly