The "last round" bell clanged, sending
Island night owls slowly shuffling out.
Drunkenly, Ernest eyed the lighthouse above tops of trees
Showing the way home, stumbling back from Sloppy Joes.
Cracked chips of paint cling
To his hands in the humidity, from clutching too tightly
At railings, mounting the porch steps where
Six-toed felines and a wife wait on Whitehead Street.
Clickity-clackity, composing chapters, putting genius on paper
Before electroshocks and shotgun solitude can take it away
Like Castro confiscated his Cuba, leaving
An old man and his sea of sorrow, stretching
Ninety miles to Havana Harbor.