Buena Vista Social Club

New music, old rhythms
Something with a Cuban beat
Rum, sun, swaying of hips in tight, sweaty satin
Rich tobacco rolled lovingly against used brown skin
Languid days, humid nights
Calloused fingers and weathered cheeks
Bleating trumpets and strumming guitars
Revolutionary beards, tired fatuges of tattered green
Havana, the city where anything went
Bitter coffee sweetened with fresh cut sugar cane
Served with mandatory tumbler of water
Small tavernas thick with smoke and the scent of sex
Socialist baseball
Faded images of Castro and Che
Makeshift cars with dented fenders
Clunking over hopelessly pitted roads
Running on alcohol and parts reconstructed by bicycle mechanics
The dreams of generations confined to a bankrupt Caribbean island
Seeps out in song.