Dizzy and Stranded in Prague

(Justin Lavash / Michal Horáček)

So here’s how I‘m hit by the air:
a filly that used to be shy
has grown to a galloping mare
with arrogant nostrils held high.
All odours have risen to fly;
they mix a Bohemian drug.
Decaying leaves rustle and I
am dizzy and stranded in Prague.

Some sage in a Lesser Town square,
a quizzical look in his eye
as pigeons dishevel his hair,
adumbrates the eras gone by.
Long bygones slip back on the sly,
their webs close around like a hug:
a treatment with which must comply
the dizzy and stranded in Prague.

The passers-by scuttle and share
a secret I just can’t descry;
some markedly local affair,
as dark as the overcast sky.
Seek no more lights, don’t even try,
for someone has pulled out the plug.
Might be the one telling me: „Why,
ya dizzy and stranded in Prague?“

I manage a smile, albeit wry,
and pick up a souvenir mug
inscribed in blue: „Always Deny
You’re Dizzy and Stranded in Prague.