Category: Poems about travel

Easter Morning in Zizkov, 1999: Staring at the Neighboring Building.

Woke up
hung over
again.
Moan and turn
toward the window.
This bed is level with the window,
a bird’s eye view
into a neighbor’s window.
Windows are just windows
not souls into eyes.
Any bird can view.
I could roll out
of this window,
and fall five
long stories to a quick death.
Five long tales.
It would be easy.

“The fall would be so quick
you probably won’t wake till you hit
the ground,
then it would be
just like a flashlight turning off.”
Marco teased me.
I thanked him for the refreshing
insight about my level window.
My life reduced to
a flashlight.
Something to hit over our heads.

Somewhat
comatose looking at white
lace curtains in the facing window,
neighbor’s window,
building across the street.
Lace curtains looking
fresh and clean
dove like
— not dingy and brown
like my curtains.
We are pigeons.
Pigeons can be doves, ask
Warhol, ask Picasso, ask Matisse.

Dear neighboring building
repainted, and power-washed.
Do you stare at our
a faded lime green,
stained from time
streaked from pollution
old tears of moisture.
Do you see art in our grime?
Finger painting
masterpieces done by cats?

I see your angel
awning hanging out
jutting out like it’s
baroque,
or art nouveau.
Why bother to guess?

I have a headache from the thinking.
The night before’s drinking.
It’s Easter morning.
Holidays are sudden events.
We colored bird’s eggs with crayons
days ago,
It was already here.

Bird drinks at Feste’s and Rachele
cornered me
made me promise to paint
color crayon to promise
to hide Easter eggs from view
for all the guests.
All those dirty pigeons.

My head
throbbing,
stomach
rotting:
falling from the windows
another morning in Žižkov.