A BRONZED HEMINGWAY

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Cuba:

this land of happy people, of dancing people:

everywhere the quivering rhythm; the seduction of bongos;

and everywhere they stop me to ask if I’m related to ‘Papa’  -  Hemingway that is  - it seems I have a look of this most honoured of men here in Cuba.

Later, in El Floridita, sure enough I find a bronzed Hemingway (literally) in his usual pose, leaning on the bar, patiently waiting for another daiquiri (I believe sixteen at one sitting was his record). After the mandatory photographs with him, I enjoy a mojito, and reflect on the many fine stories he wrote; the sad ending to it all, and the stories that might have been.

Later as we leave, we meet an old beggar lady in the street: calloused hands that lived through a revolution, reaching out to us, imploring  -  we suspect for money  -  but not so, she is asking, it seems, if we have a pen or pencil for her  – sadly we don’t:

but I leave, wondering what stories have been lost, for want of a pencil!

bongos beneath the moon  -

a bright peso

in a dark calloused palm