The Painting By

an Indian artist was blue

and beautiful, a hallway

leading to a court yard

full of ambience and feeling

Made me think of the first tea

an Indian friend ever made for me,

hot, with so much milk I couldn’t believe

I would taste the tea,

but a strong flavor of all the earth

of India waited in that cup,

so different than anything

English or American.

And yet, mostly I was taken

back to a hot dark hallway

closed off to the street 

by a wooden door that let in

creaks of light while a slow

ceiling fan turned and I drank

hot Cuban style coffee

served by the old Puerto Rican

grandmother of a friend’s friend,

as we traveled around

the northeastern coast of the island.