The Road to Puyo

The scent of the hog hanging by it's snout from a thatched tienda 
we zip by on rented beat-up mountain bikes and the jungle road to Puyo
all filling up with a longing for something holy and foreign. 

Eighteen wheeled rumble and honk, leaving little spaces 
For tires and legs and raw feelings of spraying rain 
And the tilt of my head and frame to avoid 
the rooster tail whipping up into my eyes. 

A tunnel approaches on la izquierda 
we keep a la derecha onto la ciclovia of octagonal tiles striped lengthwise 
with sopping cobblestone and sometimes gravel 
and sometimes mud and sometimes puddles and sometimes a stream 
that comes a third up the wheel and peppers you everywhere with agua sucia.