Cuban Coffee

Late  night

Before I fall victim to

the lack of light...

I dream about

Cuban cortaditos --


salsa dancing


percussion grooves


our every move.

and we are beautiful..

bottles of rum,

greasy rice

and sticky love

that makes every lady

mi abuela.

Across the street,

old men in the cafeteria

crowd the tiny establishment space

and talk pasts..

gleamy eyes relive every moment

through coffee shots.

and I can tell it ain't no business place.

This is home baby...

This is home...

and I used to wonder


my grandfather

slammed porcelain dominoes

on a table

at 86 years young...

But you should've seen him cry

as he won..

and somehow evaded

volcanic blood pressure

and a second


down there,

you are shit, Mr. Big Shot.

Try our finances --

spread blackened thumb

over skylines of hope

and watch as I listen to dad in amazement

how gathered

round the pavement

fifty kids

watched mighty mouse

on one TV.

Guayaberas carry

tobaccos in one pouch

and memories

in the other.

Buttoned up,

we are lovers

digging into each other's

chest pockets.

I live for the days

when the clouds cry over my people..

and all we do

is stand in rainsoaked lines

for 40 cent carvings of toast...

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Nery's picture

AMAZING! I love it!

RainerBukowski's picture

"buttoned up, we are lovers digging into each others chest pockets"

that's brilliant...
excellent work you do. this one in particular is a beautiful vivid memory you could almost taste.