Clack clack click the claves, ticking tocking swift
As the clong and the long short short song of the cowbell
Bid the blare blast brass to hit it, hit it, swell
Draped over scrapes of the ratcheting guiro’s riff.
And they dance meringue and salsa. Hips flaring, I staring – shift
Of my two white, too Caucasian feet underneath the table
Watching what had been maybe six now only one dark brown couple
Pound their past proudly on the floor. Break time. Band leaves stage left.
From hollow speaker, humdrum drum machines
Pump ketchup pulses over Spanish strains
And call an off-white hoard of low-brimmed “s’up”
Sayers to thrust robotically. The scene
Becomes. “Do you like Chicana pussy?” asks an unmexican
As I drink tequila from a clinkless plastic cup.