From above, the desk has a home
in a row of identical desks,
an old high school yearbook rests in the middle,
and a mechanical pencil.

We would be underneath,
kneeling for bombs
but ready for games,
eyes synchronized in little caves.

We've only the faintest scars
to show for our suffering,
and ghostly scenes reflected in old windows,
to smile in sorrow or ignore for new ballads.

The iconic beard and green hat,
like something from the attic,
like the Stones or a Kennedy,
or a warning of a cold front moving in.

Michael Philips

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-lost-poems-of-fidel-castro/