A favour, somewhere outside Havana

Camel back

Fist snack

Taken from

A branch

Hanging low

Over Cadillac

Driven last

On a track

Broken off

From Havana.

Pomegranate

Hip flask

Drunk deep

From lip-

Thirst, taken

Out from glove-

Box locked up

For fear of

Bandit- brigands

Drawing near.

But lonely

Is the track

With the Cadillac,

Deserted in the

Heat, it hosts

Only one, the

Thirst-quaked

Caballero, donning

Baseball cap and

Poncho – No –

In his dreams

In real life

He’s wearing

Jeans his

Father had

From some

Canadian,

Bootleg cut,

That was the

Fashion, so

He’s told,

Faded now,

Patched all

Over, hot

In the heat they

Itch at the groin and

Pinch at his thighs.

In the distance

A spot-billow

And the grunt

Of diesel – mule

As a truck bucks,

Rearing onto

Track’s horizon,

Will it help?

Stop, get out

Proffer aid

To a fellow,

Soldier of the

Road? Hoping

So, he gets

Out, our poncho

Dreamer, and

Waits – under

The same tree

Mentioned earlier

Orlando’s wheels

Turn, truck driving

Over track to

The Cadillac

Beached beside

That strange

Old tree he

Passes every

Day on the

Way into Havana.

Break, stop, lean

Speak, hola,

Man exchange,

Help, proffered,

Help accepted

Wheels carry

Four legs and

Arms, to Havana,

Hungry but

Calm, Cadillac

Waits for

A tug and

A push

And a glug

Of shampoo

New Year’s Eve, now and then

Drinking sweet

Liquor rum

In my brain

Thinking of

Cuba and you,

Together. Why,

When you are

Here and now

And that was

There and then,

But somehow

Intertwined round

The same bend

Of year, this

February time

That should be

Winter and isn’t

Spring. This

Fuzzy hiatus

Before the year

Begins in earnest.

The Chinese got it

Right, ours was premature,

Christmas merriment

Still mulling

Recognition through

Old Lang Sine,

Sung too soon.

Febbraio en Cuba,

February in London;

Two thousand and nine,

Two thousand and ten.

Alone abroad,

At home, with men,

With you, maybe.

More at sea than

When the Malecon wall

Fenced me off from

Them, males with

Bright, tall sails

Bobbing, skidding, winking

Through the sun-hot sheen.

Now the year’s

Stacked up its freight.

Destined where?

No ship’s docked

Yet, while me,

A girl, a rum girl,

Waits.