Up Havana high

The smell, of a deathly, midnight tangerine
essence
absent.
the smoke of a cigar twists the tango
inhale deeply
hug lungs and relax
in a soap bath
on a veranda
in Havana.
Rum on ice
tumbler lapse in hand
ash falls onto bubbles
sinks
as do my eyes.
drunk
on mambos and salsa
Latin jazz
horn playing, swaying
taken away
sing
to myself, the street below.

M J Martin