there's a little bar
somewhere in downtown trinidad
where the police
begin and end their shifts,
built into a centuries old house
(not that the age is odd or special in that city that old, mind you)
where i imagine
the bartender actually lives,
above his work.
he was a good man,
could mix a strong drink,
and one could tell
that he loved his work.
it was at this little bar
that i was first courted
by a prostitute.
(i'm assuming, at least)
she was a good looking doll.
dark ebony skin,
but light enough to make out
the freckles
that dotted her face
under her gorgeous brown eyes,
with short
rusted orange hair,
tangled up in curls
tight to her scalp.
now this was the second night there.
the first night
i had gotten drunk,
and fled in fear
of what those poor bastards
would've done to me,
some tourist,
if they had seen the appalling state
in which i left their bathroom.
so i ran out of there,
too drunk to really know
where i was going,
or supposed to go,
and i happened upon a stray dog
(a common thing in any cuban city)
and i figured that both it
and i
were in no state of affairs
YOU ARE READING
Melancholia
Puisipoetry takes us to so many places, and we take poetry to so many places. here are poems about places, and sometimes the people found in them.
