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Cuba Libre


Thick Spanish coffee, rich Cafe Caribe
Drinking in the wiles,the old promises and
smiles of Cuba. Sunbleached and decaying
wraith-like style. Death seems invited in for
awhile into the corners of this sad cafe.
The men wear bone-white suits,
the women,gaily-colored dresses making a dull parade.
Familiar strains,La Bella Musica
from brighter times echoes in the sandy streets,
wishing Fidel had never stayed. Wishing
Fidel had gone to his grave. Even Castro's daughter
cries and remembers Cuba when she could be brazen,
be unwise. Before the ash heap of regiments and
revolution. Before there were plots of a military solution.
When the nights were full of wild song and
stained with dark rum,
and passions rose and set with the blistering sun.



Meloo/Melissa A. Howells Legal Copyright September 2004
for this poem/work for this site title, by this author
Melissa Ann Howells/meloo straight from her
Tilt-a-World...legal copyright site title.
One of my favorites.





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