The maps of Rio are all image:
high holy Corcovado rises
from a green mottled blur,
Sugar Loaf towers over half the city,
the streets are blank white chutes,
most without names and fewer
than the crossings we come to.
On the streets, though, life boils around us.
Tourist season is over. On the Rua do Catete
people go about their ordinary lives,
buy diapers, wipe orange ices from a child's face,
race skateboards up and down the Metro plaza steps.
Soccer teams swarm the fields, even at 5 am,
the uniforms and whistles clear from my window.
Imperial palms sway unendangered in the Palacio parque,
where a jazz band sets up a white tent;
then disappointingly American music
pulses under the rasps of the parrots.
On the street, a child begs us to adopt her,
or buy her another felt frog (we're not sure).
Nao falo portugues, I tell her.
She makes her eyes wider
to cover my ignorance,
looks longingly at the blanket of toys
spread on the sidewalk.
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