Fidel Castro sits and gestures mildly,
Tongue wagging with Israeli crude oil prices,
Suited with British lapels protruding from a revolution-weary jacket.
A Che Guevara grin pushes and tightens lips,
pointing fingers at the existential crisis’ of President Nixon,
holding bananas behind his back as
the shares for the UFC go down and down and down.
I am kneeling. Faced toward the homeland,
toward Haile Selassie, [the not quite god],
and my phone is ringing, ringing as threat or opportune moment
that only calls once.
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