On Eighth Street

I went to photograph
them playing dominoes
Refugees from Cuba
united in a park by
a game, old stories, and
plans to overthrow Castro.
They sat around tables
wearing guayaberas
smoking fat cigars.
White-haired wrinkled men
so absorbed in themselves
they did not notice me.
One player had young neighborhood
boys for fans
that would clap and
chant his name
"Manolo, Manolo."
He was a plump old man
that wore glasses and
looked like a
beardless Santa Claus.
Click, click, click
loud voices softened
into whispers, old eyes
shifted from game to camera,
questions scattered in Spanish.
Are we going to come out
in The Miami Herald?
Are you American?
Their eyes bulged
as I replied in their language
"I have a photography class"
and before I could finish
they covered their faces
with hands and hats
Saying they were too old and ugly.