My Santiago

Some sleep,

in repose with hats tipped over faces;

Others entranced

by links to the outside worlds,

Peer with serious intent at small screens;

Some scribble feverish,

Into intimate diaries,

their intimate thoughts;

As rain crashes on deserted tarmac,

air con - chainsaw - rattles,

water seeps across transit floor,

And Cuba hot tracks

rock the cooler cafe.

And so wait, wait, wait.....

For that bird to descend from the sky,

Our passport to Baracoa!