My friend Castro’s uniform is too
Big for him now and flaps in
The wind of change.

His grizzly beard is sparse and
Under it I can see his chin,
Still firm and strong.

But the eyes are of a man who has
Fled into his own socialist dream
Where there is no material need or greed.

When democracy invades his island
Followed by Florida pimps, I don’t
Think he’ll notice.

Fidel lives inside his uniform, on a
Plateau of illusions, now that he’s a
Secular pope.