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In the
picture, I can tell you’re there,
laughing with friends and smiling for the camera,
the picture of Generation Ñ, the air
around you warm and lush, the clear
sky above punctuated by algunas palmas.
Little Havana, as we hold it up,
is not what we remember or what
we want to keep: it’s a little cup
of forgotten stuff. It’s dinner, late,
at Versailles: platanos, moro, pork chops.
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