I writhe in my seat,
Obeying the insistent beat;
Of Ayangalu, 
Patron of drummers,
I can’t sit still.

They say the mighty spirits
Of West African Yoruba
Babalú-Ayé, Changó, Ogún,
Can seize you, inhabit you, 
Obatalá, Yemayá, Ochún, 
Even on the magic isle of Cuba.

Blur of purples and yellows
Of buildings formed of stucco
Streaks
Past open taxi windows.
Humid air caresses my face,
As we careen through narrow
Streets where balconies project
From tall windows guarded by
Black iron grills
Rush in kaleidoscopic views,
Before my fevered eyes,
My brain steeped in local brews.

With reckless velocity,
The taxi races over cobbles while
Radio blares song and dance,
Makes me want to move to the beat, 
But dancing in taxis not possible, so 

I writhe in my seat,
To insistent beat;
Ayangalu whispers,
Dance!
I can’t sit still.

Both taxi and radio sweep 
me along with the swift current, 
The raging torrent of a driving beat.
Insistent rhythms snatched from 
an African plain., 
Alluring melodies with
the flavor of Spain,
Suppress unkind memories, 
Like balm calms the ache,
Like anesthesia banishes pain,
As the radio blares.

Guaracha:

Jerking strum of guitars,
Hurried chic-chic of maracas,
Shallow bat-a-bat of bongos,
Booming of drum called conga,
Echoes of the Congo.
Strident acid trumpets,
In a minor key, razor sharp
Slash through my lethargy.

I writhe in my seat,
Ayangalu moves me,
To insistent beat;
I can’t sit still.

Guaguancó:

Frenzied drums
In different pitches,
Sacúdelo niña! 
Loud, low, deep, 
THUNDER!
Of the tumbadora,
Thump a throbbing beat
DOO-ba-da, DOO-ba-da DOO-ba-da DOO!

My hands compelled to pound,
The dashboard
In time with the pulsating sound.

I writhe in my seat,
To insistent beat;
I can’t sit still.

Graceful palms swaying,
In the heat and humidity,
Blur of purple and yellow
Houses stream right by
My sandpapered eyes.

I writhe in my seat,
To insistent beat;
I still can’t sit still.