En route to the flamenco

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To Havana old town
we go in style, a gleaming, jingling horse taxi.
Its late and the day has been hot;
the horse is tired and bored with tourist routes
and breathing exhaust.
I point out a single pelican diving in the harbour,
and a chevron of egrets salute the Museum of the Revolution

To a broad alley.
To a noted seafood restaurant,
where they serve magnificent prawns on long swords

Young men play a rapid game with a ball,
which we cannot intuit the rules of.
They dart among the tables,
somehow never touching them,
like quicksilver fish around a coral.
Worlds not touching

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