I see my muse
on the butterfly orchid blossoms
adorning the street women
before their wilting
at sunrise,
in the midmorning waves
crashing against the seawall
to loudly display
their discontent,
on the clay-colored sand
docile to excited feet
destroying the fleeting glints
of the Caribbean sun,
in the dance of palm leaves
like swaying arms
stretched for the phantom embrace
of the exiles,
on the crumbling facades
where men burn hand-rolled tobacco
to invite the July wind
to their early afternoon rest,
in the long cars of the fifties
still roaming the narrow streets
and not giving in
to nostalgia,
on the wooden park benches
at sunset after five
where covert poets wait
for the words they have lost,
in the cobblestone alleys
quiet in their duel with the dust
invading the sad glares
of streetlights,
I see my muse, Havana.
