Bratislava in the Rain
The seamless blending of a McCafe into Soviet-era blocks of substandard housing
Is not enough to snuff it out;
Nor the hard bucket seats of a Monday evening tram that blinks feebly at the death of
summer
Cannot contain it;
Nor even as the light is further lost in mist and drizzle and encroaching night,
Can the gaudy glare of sex shops and casinos obscure its finer nature;
No, not even Bratislava in the rain has the power to drown out the Flame of Human
Joy
Which bursts to life a million ways a second.
Here, in the bright blue eyes of a woman, early sixties,
Who meets by chance her niece, just back from Vienna.
There, as a determined foot of six years and as many inches
Plants itself with purpose upon the puddles,
Transforming broken footpaths into a water theme park.
And once again, as the tram rattles off behind me,
In the fingers of young lovers parting for the night,
Which etch in condensation a symbol of their breathless love
upon the glass.
