Cuban

On my most melancholy days, I feel like an old Cuban man relaxing on a bench, wearing a light gray linen suit and a flat cap, smoking a Bolivar, watching the world pass. The midcentury winged Cadallacs in fading pastel colors steam by like pigs on their way to nowhere, and the sun spreads with no other purpose than to be hot, and to make men want to smoke on benches. There is no reason to interrupt.