I remember by the pool:
speakers on, cigars lit, drinks
cold. The smell of machismo
in a Cuban household. Men around
a table, their wives inside. The younger girls
sit by our guys. I listen to the chatter.
He gets up and leaves me alone
in a different kind of Cuban home–
three daughters, my majority won, I learn to act
like a son. With these men I laugh, drink and joke
so they accept me as one of them, a head
at the table. I pity these men impressed by women
who endure their prattling like hens. Offensive
humor, but of course, that’s not what they meant,
As if I’d take it as a compliment.