Contact the author: popcultureslut@hotmail.com

I stepped out onto
the Malecón
and saw the pretty girls
in Western clothes,
the pink and orange and lime green paint
peeling off the sides of
colonial architecture.
That's where I met you,
amidst the chaotic rhythms of
Africa and Flamenco,
where pretty girls danced salsa
and tango and merengue with
their boyfriends.
We strolled past the militia,
the ice cream parlors with
long lineups,
staging our own Revolución;
stealing kisses in the backs of
yellow cabs and the carriages
of rickshaws.
And your lips tasted like
strawberry milkshakes-
like the lineups for ice cream,
they were worth
the wait.

© 2007 Aaron Bayley