PM120631
Only one week before,
veinticincodemayo, autumn
in full swing, but winter
had since broken over the horizon.
The sea was an irate witch,
the wind and rain had blown
her into a rage, outright bitchiness
tossed against the empty sands
the surf reaching almost to
the entrance of the casino.
Eight foot waves peaked and
surged,
one lone surfer in a neoprene
suit braved the surf,
Hektor versus Achilles,
the ocean's heel was still strong
and the surfer was plunged into
the sea at whim.
Further up on the pedestrian boulevard
few remaining tourists walked
in the mist,
looking at cheap memories, prices
slashed at the onset of bad weather.
I walked past the "Pink Floyd Tattoo",
that I'm sure is not endorsed
by David and Roger but Syd would
probably have appreciated.
Back at the casino I stood
in the wind and snapped
shot after shot of the surf
and the mist.
Approached by two teenagers I
tightened my grip on my camera
only to be relieved to find they
only wanted to bum a cigarette.
They told me I wasn't from around
there, my disguise had not
worked, and they warned me of
two men who had been watching me.
I looked to where they pointed
but they were shuffling away.
I thanked the boys, pocketed my
camera and walked back towards
the city.
No more pictures today.
Back in the Havanna Cafe I
sat and relished the aura
while sipping a 'cafe cortado'
and an 'alfajore' with merengue
and 'dulce de leche'.
As the skied began to clear I
made my way towards the
cathedral, shining in its'
beauty, but way too close
to McDonald's and Burger King,
I cringe at the 'Yanqui' invasion.
Michael Crane
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