A Peruvian, not that far from Columbia, or Chile, and selected for heroism, adversity, and remaining true, to Allah, to pancreas, a poor boy from a village, or a villa, or a Bob Villa, a sense of defending a homeland, a place where huge stores of “copper” are found, or was it molybednum.
A poor boy, weighing up at weigh in, using dust, dirt, clay and foundation to build his reputation, to go long, to buy slow, to fling, in Spring, Summer, Fall,
But not around a mall.
A plane– he had no idea there were jets, leaves him off — at Teetleburo, so he has to walk from there.
He walks without a talk, he shrugs without a mug. He has dreamin’ on his mind. Dreams of peace. To the UN, on the banks of the Big Muddy, the silent isles, the flat island next to big river, plu perfect riviera, land mass, hub flashy fast mass, sand against heels, pressed against squamous tissues.
The Peruvian arrives, alluvian, tattered, Mannahattas tattered, shower of gold, enamored, armored.
One of the most delightful of all is this Peruvian poor boy has office space now. The modernist structure of this palace, clean in a way he, rolling in the dirt of trial and tribulation ne’er would, get itself clean, he would, divorced from his people, never sweep the floors, but talk to his secretary, not of commerce, or labor, or state, but take his dictation, such as he might cobble it together.
The UN this Jew of Peru discovers, is a coat of many colors.
Spam of Human Affection 
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