we shared thin, raw, slices of tuna,
conch salad, cracked stone crab claws,
drank dark rum, tripped over the noisy chickens
on our way to your room.
drank more rum from plastic cups,
then a table broke, the matching chair in pieces,
waltzing together across worn linoleum
like aging Tantric porn stars.
waking to Cuban coffee, I remember eggs,
while waiting for a bus to Miami
you wrote your number on a napkin.
I tried calling several times,
a memory persistent as the fly banging
on this kitchen door screen.
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