Pickled desperadoes
litter the Andes
like mileposts, way stations,
altitude markers.
Two grams gets you this high.
Four grams gets you dead.
Above, the peaks beckon
like cocaine sundaes.
But in the cliffside towns,
where whiskey’s served
in boxes, men will kill you
for a gold tooth,
for your new boots,
or just for fun.
A Peruvian shoeshine
means you’ve been found
socks up, polished off.