At nearly eight thousand feet, Amozac
de Mota cradles inside Puebla. It’s
so quiet here, you sense the Pacific
and Gulf invading land, even though states
of Guerrero and Veracruz buffer
us. I’m on the outskirts, poet recluse
distant from crammed citizens who suffer
the roaring, skidding, polluted abuse
of Autodromo Miguel E. Abed,
also 24 Hours of Mexico.
But the races roll in tourists who spread
pesos. That lowers taxes, I suppose.
Down the road, snowcapped Popo spews unbound
smoke veils, silent, like TV with no sound.
Roger Armbrust
February 13, 2008
