Beisbol
in Havana
Taxi a 59 Chevrolet southwest
to see Los Sancti Spiritus
Contra Los Industriales de Habana:
Baseball played quicker
From the throat, with carafes of
hot sugared coffee for twenty cents
Quien sabe who won in the clammy
Caribbean shirt-stick night
If only the future played like beisbol
in Havana
But the rum, smuggled in and
swigged in stands, the earthen voices
Summiting in aisles to argue
stats, a fan’s fat rooster perched
Proud and tethered by the foul
ball seats of the first base line
Hailed in heat by flesh and grins
and palms when called out
As Americanos, rum entre amigos, up
and over and into us
Mezclado con cafe, rum, hits, rum,
steals, rum, runs, enough rum
Walking four colonial miles to an
Old Center with an Afro-Cuban teen
Wanting English and a way out, his
flip flops will not prevent metal
Rising sharp and unexpectedly
from the sidewalk from gashing his foot
Groaning forward anyway like beisbol
in Havana
Limping on, talking about his
daughter, Luna, who is far away
Detained twice for his ID by Los
Nacionales. He tells me es normal
Passing a fallen balcony chunk in
the street, ambulance freshly gone
Onlookers conjuring the woman, bits
of her flesh and hair enmeshed
On the concrete, rum among us mumbling
like a funeral in an arc
Meet an Ivy League American,
arrogante, son of a famous man
He says, paying friends to haul bats
and gloves for kids. Three days later
I will see them broke and
nervous, prostitutes have stolen their wallets
They’ve sold the equipment cheap and
seen Consular Officials
Who speak of motives like beisbol
in Havana
Hungry, searching, owner wields
me into his club, orders a jinatera
Who saddles up, ravenous, leaning,
until she knows I’m just eating
Without dessert. Cheated on the
bill, I protest. Owner wields me out
But the game: The coffee, stats
and rooster, red as a dirt mound
How the field lights blinded
rather than shone, and the rum
