He lived in a town called Malice,
On the corner of All Souls and All Saints,
Is the Moravian church
Constructed in memory of Jan Hus,
And of all those Hussites burnt at the stake,
For believing differently.
In this late November we will fire off
Fireworks, like blood red poppies,
To explode like nebulas of stars,
A late memory of the slaughrer of the Catholics who sought
To blow up the king in Parliament.
Fireworks will descend into the black hole of suburbia,
A tangle of smoke clinging to our clothes.
Elsewhere, a veneer of dusty history sparkles
As the mist shifts
Revealing the waiting hordes,
Hiding behind braziers, chestnuts, mufflers,
Minature gloved aficionados of velvet revolutions
Descended into a tug of war
As we head into the feezing wind off the Danube.
Dark spreads across the sky
Flaring into lighted matches for cigarettes, Mingling with the whiff of beer,
People alive through this last, late November day,
Silent goingaway parties fill the corners of the empty squares
It's all over, man,
so unexpectedly late
Last one out,
Please shut the gate.