Havana

Havana

It was on the road to her

plantation that my

'56 Chevy ran out of petrol.

I left the rusted, reconstituted

coche in a ditch and began to walk.

The midday sun sprayed wet under

my button-down shirt and

wide-brimmed hat.

Moscas and gnats gnawed at

my skin, and I stepped on a

water moccasin.

Overcome by sleep,

I lay by the roadside, dreamt of her, and

how I would live.

- September 2018