It is a freedom fought and worth

the small slow drag on a Cuban cigar,

the long drawn out

spiral of smoke

and the collection of brown

spit that chokes the air

off the Danube, only briefly

before it becomes invisible

but toxin rich, before it is joined

by the steaming coffee, stronger

than home, sending its aromatic

desire up the street in a kind of wanton

come hither eyes and stroke

of the silk stocking that I watch

of one woman on her young friend;

the fall of Communism

never as momentous

or celebrated in a desperate piece

of uninspiring art

or captured

and sent away to some back water

where Stalin’s feet are slowly

pecked away.

 

The young woman kisses her friend

and holds her hand, the real victor

in idealism and truth

in Budapest’s Market Streets.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016