Fall by the seawall that walks you from Vedado to old Havana,
trees with giant brownred peapods clatter the breeze
small, unamerican cars
we were ignorant in love with the place,
following music to overpriced mojitos and prostitutes to rooms for rent
you and your tall son spoke with us in french,
polite but quietly fierce around the eyes, you’d been
stoned in a small cell for not fingerpointing with the rest,
unable to leave here for martinique for years,
refusing to work you take welfare instead
and walk the waterway, and put poems in each others heads.