el palacio nacional

unlike the white house with a moat of greeen and piked fencing,
the palacio nacional of guatemala has its own plaza in it's front yard.
one steps off the front steps, crosses the street and there is the plaza
nacional where the pueblo meets and disperses. some stay in huts of black plastic and workers' proclamations. men, women, and children
sell and beg, beg to sell.
musicians sing on and off stages.
actors dress as tall clowns, as pregnant women, aborted women, silenced women.

here the pueblo comes to shout and mime
to the rulers who rule behind the grey walls and sealed blackened windows of this palacio nacional.

but how often do these rulers stand at these windows and peer through curtains and tinted glass to see, and read, and hear, and watch, the pueblo to whom they are responsible? is the president advised not to for security reasons or for fear that he might be touched by the little girl lost in the crowd, the mother with child extending matches to tourists, the sindicated-workers who have lived there longer than he has? is there fear that he might reflect, meditate, and act with conviction instead of blind principles?