There is an old man sitting in his old man chair,
He feels the price of every year. His fingers tap merenge
rhythm for no one but himself to listen.
Dear wife brings his slice of cake, a glass of sherry, she thinks he wakes.
Not asleep, just gone for a ride, through the upstate Jersey countryside, he, his brother, nothing dies– the larder full of harmless lies.
The Florida grass is thickly green, the heat a soaking, sickly thing as sprinklers run, condensers hum is this success? And have I won?
Mis hijos, men- m’ija then, comes to watch the television. Fireworks fall outside and in, he holds her hand inside of his.
He drags the beat a hair within, the timing late, but on the one. Let it arrive but not too quickly– ¡da te prisa!, pero en el uno.
Juancho
There must be mountain in Cuba.
lets go!
An inspired tribute!