Settled in Krakow


In the cafe we sit cheek by jowl

A Scot and a Kravokian citizen

And I imagine her autumn coat, fine hat

Being the same some hundred years past

Her imperious posture and magesterium reduced

Only slightly by the olympic force of the orange, plastic seating

A fictional story runs as my fantastic apple pie is eaten…

There is no one at home and a brother lives in Chicago;

They haven’t spoken since he refused to attend mother’s funeral,

This is broken by the taking of her hand by a friend-similarly dressed

And by the cupping of her gaze by another lady aquaintance as they acknowledge

They are here, in Krakow, city of culture, city of the dragon under the castle.


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