My Santiago

Driving,

We pass places on the promenade,

Where lovers and walkers co-exist;

Havana’s place by the sea,

And into 5th Avenue,

the houses, sometimes ragged

but oh so beautiful;

Past decrepit parks, playgrounds

and overgrown tracks,

With one solemn, slow

and -sometimes- comic runner,

enacting a masquerade

in hazy motion;

a parody of the athlete.

And so we arrive at Baracoa Airport,

To fly to self-same name;

Cuba’s most far-flung place

of rugged beauty.

We check in and move into transit.

And that was some few hours ago!

And so now we wait,

In stasis,

In transit,

Incommunicado,

And Incapable;

of escape!