-late December, 1958-

good morning, comrade.

let’s have something to eat.

we'll have a quiet talk, hit the trail, take-over

the infested train and kill some Batista.

later as the women dance around the campfires

we'll cut the throat of a pig in celebration.

In time you’ll run the rifle-strap from your shoulder,

rip a roasted leg from the crackling carcass

and pick your woman from the chorus.

the tent is being warmed and readied.

the sentries are nosey but vigilant.

your beard is greased

in the fat of the pig and stinks.

you’ve shit in the underbrush like the buffalo

and smoked the last inch of the cool night’s cigar.

down the mountainside,

and thirty miles to the north, Santa Clara waits.