Marco the Cuban

Marco the Cuban

“It’s a tango,” Marco said.
—Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Marco was hot—tall, dark, handsome
He was wearing—an immaculate white suit
A pale blue shirt—and a yellow satin tie
His eyes were cold—as his diamond stickpin

Marco had lots of—hot male magnetism
He was a young hustler—from Havana
After the Revolution—when he touched me
I felt like Ethel Rosenberg—sizzling in the chair

Marco was a snake—a skanky slithery one
He didn’t walk—he slowly glided over to me
He was a Cuban womanizer—I could tell
He looked like Jack Palance—in Shane

Marco didn’t smile—he smirked at me
He had a pair of thin lips—like a slit
And when Marco—whispered in my ear
I felt his forked-tongue—deep inside me

I always craved—Jack Palance types
I remember watching—all his movies
Sudden Fear—drove me up the wall
I was—Joan Crawford & Gloria Grahame

Panic in the Streets—the story of my life
In love with a New Orleans—thug gangster
I played Tommy Cook—his lover boy
Who cared if—Palance had the plague

The band was playing—loud Latino music
I drank too many—daiquiri dickery docks
I pretended I was drowning—on the patio
The pool glowed blue—so did his jugular

The country club night—abandoned me
Everything about him—got exaggerated
He treated me like dirt—in the box hedges
Squeezed & bit me—I bruised so easily

I grabbed his stickpin—and jabbed him
Down there where—Cubans are so proud
Marco gasped—grabbing where it hurt
I left him on his hands & knees—cursing

Manhattan grabbed me up—fleeing back
To my penthouse—throwing everything
Out the window—my wardrobe and me
Out into the dark—heart of New York

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