Wandering troubadour Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 500 journals on six continents; and 24 collections of poetry – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Santa Marta Ayres (Origami Poems Project, 2024). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. She is a Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada honoree (2011), and Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels at: https://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com

NOCTURNE

Night has fallen in this valley city.
Opaque fog seeps deep, creeping down
Cobblestone streets like spirits
Traveling through time to visit
Us, to tell us something … What
Reality awaits us in our dreams this
Night, what visions shall we see, what
Emotions will pass through our souls?

THE MORNING RIDE

I.
A blind man boards, one eye sunken, the other cloudy. He grasps the bar with one hand, his cane in the other. He makes his plea for alms, then walks down the aisle, unsteady with the trolley’s passage through morning traffic.

At each stop
	the people come
		the people go

II.
A young man reads a book. One hand reaches into his pink-leopard knapsack for a piece of bread. A skateboard rests between his feet.

At each stop
	the people come
		the people go

III.
A young woman enters, her child bound to her chest with a soiled blanket. With a wavering voice, she sings. She smiles as the baby reaches for a breast.

At each stops
	the people come
		the people go

VI.
Standing up, sitting down, other folks scroll cell phone screens, awaiting the announcement of their stop.

At each stop
	the people come
		the people go

V.
Sometimes the morning ride passes without a supplication, without an announcement. Just the squeak of brakes, the hiss of doors opening & closing …

At each stop
	no-one comes
		no-one goes

VI.
Another young woman yawns wide. She then falls into a sleepy trance, her large eyes staring into nothing. She adjusts one ear bud, then the other, shifting her mud-splattered shoes. Pink socks match her pink-painted lips.

At each stop
	the people come
		the people go

VII.
A thin man, in grime-shiny clothes that reveal patches of his darkened skin, picks up the front paws of his reluctant dog and dances. He looks eagerly at the passengers, hoping someone …

At each stop
	the people come
		the people go

VIII.
A middle-aged couple takes seats facing each other. They look at each other with love-struck eyes. Her right foot touches his.

At each stop
	the people come
		the people go

IX.
Now to that final stop where the last of us shall hoist our bags, stow cell phones (or perhaps stay glued to the screen) & head to our morning obligations.

At this stop
	the people go … 
		we go

HUMANITY

13-14 April 1992 / Mexico City to Oaxaca (El Oaxaqueño / 2ª class)

It is Semana Santa. When I boarded this train, the day before had been Palm Sunday. Next Domingo will be Easter.

The train is packed with people returning from a village festival. Debarking and on-coming passengers carefully step over sleeping bodies. The cold of these night mountains is heated away by our humanity.

In the dim light of this car, I see a young woman begin to swoon. She is heavy with eight months of child. I offer my seat to her. In the aisle I stand, body pressed against body against … We sway with the rhythm of this train twisting through the sierra, swaying in the fatigue that blankets our minds.