La Floridita (For Ernest Hemingway) Poem by Niko Tiliopoulos

The other night
I went to that bar,
on Obispo Calle,
in Havana
to find my drunken muse.

I found a place of past glory,
now with cheap tables,
a fading tapestry,
fried bananas for side-dishes,
and a malfunctioning air-condition.

It was only that decaying,
almost invisible, painting
behind the bar,
and the aging orchestra
that betrayed the present.

And between the annoying
flashing tourist cameras
that polluted the dim lights
there were clues
that my muse had been here;
or at least her long dead brother.

His face was hanging on the walls
in multiple copies of framed, black and white
impressions of yester-times,
while his bronze statue
was staring at me, uncomfortably,
from a corner,
with wit and thirst.

In the end,
I didn't find my muse,
but instead I discovered
'la cuña del daiquiri',
which, I guess,
is not so bad after all.