The chrome Indian head
of a black ’49 Pontiac Chieftain Coupe,
shimmers in the late afternoon sun.
My Dad had one fifty years ago;
it had leaky brakes
and sometimes he had
to angle it against the curb
to stop it.
It must have died
long ago, but here,
frozen in time, this one
glides past a couple
on their clunky chunky
Chinese bicycle.
She beams
and has one hand
around his waist;
in the other,
a birthday cake.
A little further along,
in an old Mafia hotel,
the ghost of the gangster,
Meyer Lansky
dressed in a brown
double-breasted suit,
matching fedora,
and white spats
stands on top of
a winding staircase.
He puffs on a Cohiba
and surveys
his kingdom below
while Sinatra croons.
Across the road,
on the seawall,
trumpets and saxophones
play for tourist dollars
while young lovers
strut their stuff
and old men fish and drink
rotgut rum.
They’ll share some
if you ask, but it’s better
not to.
Below, lithe barefoot boys
scramble along the rocks
and never mind
sea spray splatters.
The black coupe stops
alongside pastel
faded tenements,
their crumbling facades,
and sidewalks that bristle
with exposed rebar,
and pulls up behind
a real ‘classico.’
It’s a ’57 two-tone
Belair Chevy Convertible
with those wide fins
that slice through
hot humid Havana nights.
In the front, Papa,
with his freshly pressed suit,
trim little moustache,
and shiny black hair
slick with pomade,
sits and smiles.
Behind him,
perched on the back seat,
hair freshly permed,
a little nervous
but proud,
she sits
in her new gown
that billows over
the buffed sheen
of the trunk.
Just turned fifteen
she waits,
delicately balanced,
on the cusp
between girl and woman,
for her procession
to begin.