I hold him in my memory cabinet
My tiny particle of a past time
A quick snapshot in my brain
The time I met him as a man
Not a faraway gilded icon
Viewed him closely as a child
An unbiased boy of eight
I did not study his words then
Critique works for style, depth
Saw only a smiling bearded man
Only vaguely grasped
He might be famous
Enjoyed his pat upon my head
The offer of a lemonade
I slurped it in the lounge
Of a boat bound for Cuba
While my parents chatted
With this man of letters
Accompanied by his wife
A warm and friendly blonde
With a body so lithe
It stirred a youngster's admiration.
She too is in my treasure box
Along with a Havana Harbor scene
The black hulled yacht Pilar
A spectacular arrival
Circling our passenger ship
His friends were all aboard
"Ernesto, Ernesto" they cried.
D.H. Hays, a freelance journalist and poet, lives in East Hampton.