In Heaven, Fidel Castro Dances With Florence Henderson

And the dancefloor is like an ice rink
they glide in and out of billowing clouds
pink mist blood of martyrs of La Revolucion
soothing baby blue of suburban housewife Valium

Spinning ecstatic now to their own stars
not proletariat red or bourgeoisie sparkly
no judges with magic-markered cards
nor nosey neighbors from down the street

Together again after their all-too-brief
NYC affair in 1958—
she a budding Broadway starlet
he a hard throwing prospect for Los Yanquis

Eternity will be just like
their single Copacabana night
a spotlight on her bright blonde hair
the glint of his polished alligator shoes

She smells like America to him
a hint of vanilla at neck and wrist
newly mown lawns and wood paneled dens
But when the rhumba beat starts up

Her hips her culo roll with genuine desire
for his suave Latin loins Caribbean
breezes blowing through pomaded hair
nutmeg and handrolled cigars sugarcane sweat

A tango now they are joined thigh to thigh
zoom out to reveal the band in flamingo rhumba sleeves
half of them American blondes with shining teeth
the other swarthy Cubans knocking out time

until this eternity is over
when they can slip out to the alley
and sing moonlit songs
of their own choosing

© W. Joe Hoppe, 2016

 

heaven

One thought on “In Heaven, Fidel Castro Dances With Florence Henderson

  1. Your occasional verse skills never fail to impress me, though I doubt this will be read at either of their funeral services.
    Favorite part:
    they glide in and out of billowing clouds
    pink mist blood of martyrs of La Revolucion
    soothing baby blue of suburban housewife Valium
    Reminds me of Graham Reynolds’ Pancho Villa opera.

    Liked by 1 person

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