For A Few Hours We Were All The Same Poem by Ron Stock

of Hurricane Patricia slamming into the little fishing village of La Manzanilla del Mar, Mexico, on October 23,2015, in the late afternoon, early evening light, until darkness
of palm trees that swished and swayed like pulsating jellyfish in the violent turbulence
of water-drenched green leaves pasted in elaborate patterns across colorful adobe walls
of a baby chick, in a nest, in a weak tree, of how it survived 165 mph winds, or not
of birds who had no route of escape and were locked inside the eye of the hurricane
of los scorpiones, the wise elders, who crawled underground to avoid the hassle
of our ancient, sedate community of crocodiles, who probably didn't even notice
of a 3-year-old niña who sang church songs to block out the howling sting of the wind
of a man who watched large tree branches swirling around inside spiraling wind vortices
of the road side tropical forest whisked away to become a pile of rubbish in the jungle
of a woman who heard a train roar by as large sections of her roof slid into her garden
of the Mexicano y Gringo tile lamina y palapa roofs that sailed se fueron into the sunset
of a 9-year old standing chica who repeatedly bounced her back up against a brick wall
of la madre of the same back-pounding chica who ate and ate and ate and ate every hour
of la mujer who witnessed the brick walls of her house expand and contract then topple
of the man who watched 8 windows-sliding glass doors crack and explode onto his patio
of una mujer and two women who sat in a car inside a garage with a bottle of tequila
of a man who stood in front of with both hands pressed against a bulging glass window
of el hombre naked because he didn't want to get his clothes wet while collecting food for his mate, arms tightly wrapped around the trunk of a palm tree red tiles whizzing by his head like bullets thinking I'm going to die and God's going to see me like this
of a man who stood in his outdoor kitchen in the wind heard a whistling sound a few feet from his head, looked up looked over noticed a narrow twig embedded like an arrow in the metal casing of his refrigerator door la familia now hangs a dish towel on the hook
of the man who had five huge trees collapse onto his roof now he lives in the sunny lane
of several families y familias whose houses y casas were brutally beaten or destroyed
of a 15-year-old muchacho who calmly recorded his feelings on paper every 30 minutes
of la mujer who found the red floor of her restaurant undermined by heavy ocean waves
of dogs, cats, iguanas, y pelicanos missing, of roads washed away, of steel highway signs snapped at ground level, of telephone poles piled like sticks, of no robbers, no ladrones
of an 11-year old niña who wrote, "No lights. No television. All restaurants torn down."
of los soldados, who loaded black body bags into their trucks but fortunately did not use
of the pre-stress, stress, and post-stress felt by all, todo, in town, nearby, or far far away
of la gente especial, the special people, who helped others before they helped themselves
of sadness, despair, fear, tears, repair, scattered rubble, being stunned, and resilience
of the man who lost his roof but kept filming, who afterward mused, "Hurricanes Suck."
of a rumor, chisme, of one poet's outdoor pink toilet tumbling down a barren hillside
of el hombre, who said, "Mexicanos y Gringos! For a few hours, we were all the same."