Tipsy on white rum and lemonade
Expecting droves of tourists
Finding the old square half empty
So we wound through galleries
Like conquistadors
Though more savvy and photogenic
The fortune-teller saw through us
Not blinded by armour or horses
Her huge smile beckoning us to sit
In Spanish only half understood
She had you picked as definite
Defiant, proud and generous
This whole character assessment
Resting on a card table
That proved not to be weight bearing
As soon as your elbows met the
Balsa perch, it crumbled
Sending your fortune scattering
Cards and flowers falling
Onto ancient cobble stones
We helped the chuckling fortune-teller
Gather her deck and calm was restored
A white necklace of protection given
Token of some African goddess
Capable of warding off evil
Your neck an elegant easel
For the display of Afro-Cuban
Mysticism and possible futures
Tumbling like a tarot pack
Through the crumbling streets of Havana.
© shaun patrick green 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment