when I grow up I want to be a jazz musician,

play the piano fast, infuse my tunes

with Afro Cuba and relate stories of

my days on the road and in old Havana when

gangsters, writers and gigolos all

wore mustaches and you couldn’t

tell the farmers from the intellectuals but

they all loved Jazz Americano and I would

sit on my bench and drawl my faux

southern accent into the mic, smile and tell

the woman how much I liked her

frivolous little hat with yellow bird attached

or lots of veiling that was too warm to wear in

this tropical island club but it would catch my eye

red haired woman trying to look blasé, drinking

something sweet filled with fruit, skirt tight

displaying lots of leg, mucho promise of

later tonight with the artist, me the piano player

hiding himself away in Havana until Castro and the Fidelistos

took over one American dream dried up and

where can I go with this angle all worked out

my accent perfected and my repertoire complete

from the American “Hit Parade” and a Cuban

tune to show my attempt at authenticity

designed like the creative guy I was to sway the women

and tell the men I, too was macho, not an untalented

swindler afraid to go back home and start again.