Brazilian cockroaches hiss when disturbed,
scuttle away to hide in crevices along
with crumbs and spilled sugar.

The hissing can really get to you.
On Copacabana beach men stare, their
mouths working on a series of soft

jeers and hisses I fail to understand.
Rising at an acute angle above the shore
the Pão De Açucar is festooned in clouds.

Vendors traipse between bathers with water,
Coca Cola, beads. Cell phones ring.
The beach smells of surf, sunscreen

and marijuana. Security police patrol,
enforcing the no topless law —As If.
The hissing can really get to you–

beggars with one stump, one eye; shoeless
skinny children– your potatoes please.
The waiter hissing to scare them off.

Sorry, we say, we weren't going to eat
them anyway. We step into spilled
sugar, dark corners, hiss for a taxi.