Havana Moon

Havana’s not so far from here,
but we don’t go there now.
There was a time we would have spent
the night in laughter, drinking rum;
moving to the primal rhythm
under the moon on Marazul.
But that was before we were born
and I wonder how I know that.
And I wonder why I see
wooden ships in the harbor
quietly at anchor, furled sails
wet with dew and moonlit white.
And I wonder why I hear
a song carried over the water
and the sound of a Spanish mandolin
in a lovesick sailor’s hands.