I am troubled by news
especially if I’ve not heard.
So what if returning travelers say
the food is even better, the toilets
now have running water? Every picture
I’ve seen is posed against a restaurant
or beach setting. But what does the Plaza
look like near midnight? Does the woman
with flowers wound through her matted hair
still thrust her purple-streaked face at shop
windows? How many pigeons converge on the square?
I’m troubled no one seems to know the answers.
And yet, every time a new body is fished out
of a ditch, the newspapers are so certain.
Druggie or drug dealer. Prostitute or pimp.
The hand that carved the polished handle,
or the hand that severed the lungs from the throat?