Not all days run at a general ease
But some are jinxed indeed.
The bank card not found
Has to be claimed lost.
Well then there’s need to chill
At a typical Viennese Café.
Yet as some Furies are on the
Direct powers of a great Muse
Had not been switched on this
An order of espresso macchiato
Is not served everywhere as
So hunt for the near ideal
Your palate still recalls.
The poet meets a writer friend
In Café Prückel
A place bustling with a hub.
The waiter lacks Viennese humour
But even he’s from a neighbouring
Country one thought that this city
Has still a ‘Golden Age’- tradition
For central Europe’s melting pot.
The poet tight on funds has to
Fork-out the total bill
The writer offers one of his pens
A kind of tradeoff between pals
Who’ll engage in common dreams?
The poet recalls all his grand losses
Of a topsy-turvy past with an
Only the day before the poet has
Annotated Art-Repro’s for Mr T.
Until the artist of survival sank into
His comfy couch and fell asleep.
The poet had left behind his black
Journal poetry book as he left
The roof apartment on silent feet.
It’s hard today to find Vittel water
But lots of other stuff loaded with
Minerals and gases one doesn’t
At least a spark of a thought that leads
The tired poet to his knapsack
Stored below his writing desk
Where he retrieves his glasses buried
Below his walking gear.
Some mint tea! A good night’s sleep
Is all he’ll need as a final offing?
Music by Satie from his headphones
Cuts out the word rushing bye upfront
On Main Street Weidling at the feet
Of the Viennese Woods.