Los Vendedores

by Shaun T. Griffin

Out of the sand they come
crowing like cocks in the morning sun,

chanting their strange, melodious hymns to food;
Tortillero, Helado, Mani tostado.

and the children, burnished and thin,
scurry to meet the musical men,

and the women, smoked in their shawls,
float on brooms behind them,

and the beach is never still
with the halo of hunger overhead.

from Driving the Tender Desert Home