To Cuba’s “revolutionary” rum
add the “freedom” of Coke
lemon, ice … an alcoholic joke.
An unimaginable drink
Castro mixing with Bloomberg.
After five you start to think
you just saw Marx cruising
the Malecon in a ’50s Caddy.
Havana’s Women in White
gladioli aloft like blind torches
marching, cojones alright.
Curvaceous in that Cuban way
that celebrates the oral, the aural
their sons and lovers jailed
the new sugar crop, cruel trope
to trade with diplomats and Pope.
Miami, where many fizz in exile
Rabbit Angstroms run
and Vice gets nice reviews.
The false hopes of Sierra Maestra
raised by the rusted Leninist
here drown in one word: More.
This is the Florida of democracy
the one that Bushed out Gore.
Six Cuba Libres down the hatch …
pink elephants, men in orange suits
cuffed and caged and Coranic
chanting bad will for the infidel
who marches in camo and counts
and recounts, searches turban to toe.
Revolution meet Free World ...
welcome to Guantanamo!
“In my day,” rants the
old man as though he’d only
had 24 hours.