MORNING IN HAVANA

Streets too narrow for cars. Potholes gleaming like wine

in deep glasses, bags of cement crackling in corners

leaking gray tears in the cluttered gutters. Blaring

beats wave from one window to the next, chanting

with wet shirts and panties, the scent of tobacco

—voice rising in pitch, a ladder of sound.

We didn’t hold onto each other or anything coming

up to that old holy place from behind, the man

with the accordian smiled at us even before we

put a coin in his hat. The famous American writer

already drunk in his house with the thousand trees,

his pools, the red-breasted trogon, the red-necked

bulging trody on the fence, a basket of shiny gold

alepidomos mixed with the crafty eels for dinner

escorted by a round-eyed kinkagon. the door

to the synagogue wide open. Smell of rum and salt.

A few Jewbans dancing on that polished floor

a mirror glancing at them expecting a bigger crowd.

PUBLISHED IN AFTER HAPPY HOUR REVIEW, #18