
the poet on a yellow bench
reflects on his repetitive trip
from weidling station to the
subway station at the city of saints
but then as he runs from B to Ira
from A to Jo
from muse to muse
they all dance in a round dance
schnitzler to zz knew this perhaps
with eyes close shut
and belle du jour
have entertained us with a
traditional theme
in midst of a hot terrace
above the heart of vienna
where the poet’s carapace
lies unblemished in the open
exposed to some vitamin d3.
yes. He fetches Italian-made
fish dishes for the ladies
and salad for himself.
his thoughts caught-up in
the slightly poisoned food
where’s no escape from what
fish swallow.
birds still warble in weidling
horses still neigh at stephansplatz
and the trees shape the wind
the wayward child’s face.
salud.dulas
zoltanzelan
zjg-poetry’20