Old Havana II

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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.
(A certain sense of shame that the horse should suffer thus shabbily in the course of our enjoyment.)
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.
Insulated worlds
They don’t notice my video.

My friends are anxious that the players will collide with our table
Spilling the wine
I am confident no such thing could happen
It would be a breach of the laws of physics,
As well as ill-mannered.

The wine is not excellent;
“We have white wine from spine
And red wine from chillies”,
The head waiter had proudly notified us.
I can live with it
At breakfast I shared a half bottle of 12 year old rum with the foyer musicians
(The relentless cheerfulness of Cuban music)
Mid-morning daquiris at La Floridita,
Then a mojito at Hemingway’s other favourite bar
the Bodeguita del Medio.
And another, this one made with the 15 year old rum,

Scribbled down impressions in both.
In the tawdry craft market icy Buccaneros helped me beat the heat
And maintain my appetite for everything.
If I could get fresh coconut milk every day I could tolerate it better.
And the Santeria woman unwilling to tell my future,
With her excuse that its too hard in English,
But I knew she knew something not to tell
Be damned to the future anyway!
I still have several miles of the Old Town architecture to absorb.
Long live history!
(it probably will, even without my encouragement)

So bring on your white wine from spine
And your red wine from chillies.
I won’t sleep until I’ve seen the sun rise
And I won’t even be drunk until there are stars to stumble over.


CODA

A hand-painted sign announces “Flamenco”
The pavement crowd strobes across it.
By a blessing of parallax,
The sign is made to read
“Flame”
“Flame”
“Flame”


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