There is no heat like that of Haiti
It seems to hang above,
as well as reach up from below
It burns the head and the feet
it saps the energy from the body
and so often,
the hope from the soul

And, then there he was ahead-
the man on the bicycle
pulling a worker's load so heavy
that every muscle strained through the taut, cocoa skin

Glistening, moist and rank
with sweat born of his ardour springing up to cool his struggle,
he barefoot, pumped the peddles

The sun burned hotter, taunting his journey

He was right beside me now

I thought how grateful he would be for a simple taste of water-
water I was holding in my lap
Yet I thought for a while too long
for when I deigned to pass it on
we'd driven through...

The traffic,
the people,
the world,
the heat
had come between us
and like in life,
there was no backing up.