IN BUDAPEST
(In Memory of ATILLA JOZSEF)
Outside the art cinema
in a musically resonating
Budapest
they were playing
Truffaut’s great film
“The Wild Child”
a theater troupe
came by
filled with urban
pleasures
and having to pawn
my downloaded Coltrane,
not eager for another
night on a park bench
immobile from sleep
after being cramped
on a hunchbacked cot
in a firefly attic
with a somnambulist body,
shyly asking an actor
with a buzz cut
if they needed anyone
who spoke
a polyglot of languages
having put on a series
of one act plays,
and he asked me
to read a dark poem
of Atila Jozsef
and I joined the troupe
for a week-end
still in an insomniac skin
yet hurling cigarette papers
along the Danube
cold in a pre war raincoat
drenched down
in a verbal speech
of vagrant recognition
to another soul brother
of long suffering.