The Cliff Divers of Acapulco

To reach them you have to walk
The gauntlet of beggars
And those who work
For the government and are
Here to help
And others who just want
To improve their English
And get a good job
At a hotel.

This is a sad, dusty place
That smells like salt
And ammonia.
Elvis left
A long time ago.
When we finally reach
The dark and slick cliff divers
We watch silently
As one by one
They make their long
Beautiful plunge
To what looks like
Certain death.

First published in Poetry Quarterly.