A Mango

January 19, 2011
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As waves crash before
ragged pearl beaches,
small children play barefoot,
laughing in muddy backyards
surrounded by chain link
to keep the neighbor's dogs away.
A mango sounds
like old Beny Moré records,
the tapping of red pumps
dancing merengue.
It ripples like the mustaches
of cigar smoke
curling around the men's faces.
A mango ambles
like a suspendered grandfather,
but watches with the eyes
of the shy boy at the party.
Dreaming of money for a new skirt,
it sips Cuban coffee as delicately
as the prettiest cousin.
With juice dribbling down your chin,
you can have all of this
for just one minute.

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