The reservation said six gentlemen from
Hong Kong. Quiet, we expected,
Deferential, polite.
So many hahahahahas on us!

Two cars disgorged five smoking,
Frolicking, selfie-snapping,
Columbian college students ‘touring.’
Except that they never left our house,
But for the need for smokes and the occasional
Bag of chips.
They sang – off key, with abandon and
Feeling.
The boys were edgy and quiet.
The spokeswoman – the only one with any English –
Spanned the culture and language
Gap with thank yous and
‘I’m sorry for the cigarette butts in the fern garden,’
And ‘do you have a screwdriver, a tiny one, to take
Apart a phone for an electronics project?’
If we had a ticker on the front door to tally
How often it opened and closed,
Into the wee hours,
It would
Malfunction from
Overuse.

Columbians live in the front yard.
Unlike Americans.
City action is on the street.
They stand out by the cars and laugh and take
Cell-phone videos while
Climbing the Dogwood and
Share the images to their RapidoGram Stories.
They sing and talk and laugh, and we’re not sure
Why they chose to come here. Little here, our house,
In a quiet neighborhood not used to
Bogota, Columbia, South America
In the front yard and the comings and goings
Of their second car backed in and parked
Nose-out behind the first car.
Snatches of telenovelas colombianas,
Soaps in Spanish melodrama,
Ached through the cigarette smoke,
Outside the bathroom window as I
Showered for church.
It was a regular
Freakshow.

Until the spokeswoman hugged me,
Got her flowery perfume all over me,
And thanked me.  Said she
Felt so welcome here, slept so
Soundly here. And
I am
Dust-humbled and
Glad, so glad.