Contemplations at the Virgin de la Caridad Cafetería, Inc.

Que será,el café of this holy, incorporated place, the wild steam of scorched espresso cakes rising like mirages from the aromatic waste, waving over the coffee-glossed lips of these faces assembled for a standing breakfast of nostalgia, of tastes that swirl with the delicacy of memories in these forty-cent cups of brown sugar histories, in the swirling froth of café-con-leche,que será, what have they seen that they cannot forget— the broad-leaf waves of tabaco and plantains the clay dust of red and nameless mountains, que será, that this morning I too am a speck; I am the brilliant guitar of a tropical morning speaking Spanish and ribboning through potions of waist-high steam and green cane oceans, que será, drums vanishing and returning, the African gods that rule a rhythmic land playing their music:bongó,bembé,conga; que será, that cast the spells of this rumba, this wild birthright, this tropical dance with the palms of this exotic confusion; que será, that I too should be a question, que será, what have I seen, what do I know— culture of café and loss, this place I call home.