b.z. niditch | in attila jozsef's coat


In the winter air
in Budapest
before Europe’s velvet
snow kisses blow
in the aimless icy dusk
flapping wind
at the raw-boned
rouge old mirror
of a silent stranger
she also is breathless
sharing a half-pitiful dance
a skirt wish for a czardas
on the chalk-colored road
at a noisy charged hour
owning none of night life
and I’m warmed only by
wearing Attila Jozsef’s coat
over my left shoulder,
rapidly taking out
my soprano sax
out of my monster luggage
as this thinnest circus lady
thirsting for love
does an acrobatic twist
to my rhythmic jazz
and beats it fast
racing to the corner
in bawdy language
with a red shaded kerchief
taking to coquettish ways
with no respite
giving out to anyone
a faint streetwalker smile
when my reed is displaced
by a virgin accordion
sold to me by a young Roma
on the spot
with secret police nearby
as she annihilates them
by going out with the boy
in this bad Friday snow
my heart has turned
into crystal putty
Jozsef ‘s coat protecting me
from glassy elements
quickly erased
between earth and sky
of yet unwritten words.

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