Deborah PlanaYou wannabe gringa Soft dorm-room dreaming Through street protests And bones breaking on pavement I should be soaked in sweat Protecting your brilliant head From the beating Venezuelan sun But you are pale from the Boston winter And wounded Hand cramps from typing Headaches from reading Sore throat from lecturing Perched on books and papers I watch you type up models And break down What good is your God-damned intelligence? Your bed-time prayers Put you to sleep While your country feasts on air And bleeds out oil