Café Cubano

The mouth opens its arms; the arms cry to be welcomed.
This is the way we speak. Night knows what’s done

the next morning when light takes over the room
and cartwheels down our shoulders, when the smell of coffee

makes you sway with pleasure. No despegar los labios.
That’s what I’m telling you. Coffee smooth as a tongue;

Tito Puente jacking it up over the starlit dome of Club Habana.
Each of us, at some point, the night’s desire. Stir and stir

till the spoon becomes your hand, till your hand becomes
what you lean over to tell me. What I want to hear.