Riesling Dreams

I stroll through Neubaugasse,

taking in all the hands

clutching H&M bags

and the feet racing to the 

nearest gelato parlors. 

On the corner near the metro stop,

I fixate on you, 

you with your almond hair, floral dress, & golden sax, 

intimately blowing some tune

I’m too silly to recognize,

but love all the same. 

And then, for reasons I can’t conjure,

I forget my own provisional destitution,

that I’m a stranger in a strange land,

merely trying to live the next 

30 days out just for a bit of street cred in an industry

I know I don’t love anyway.

I’m unable to even enjoy myself in

the most extraordinary place I’ve ever been,

experiencing the most miraculous occurrence

in all 21 years of my life,

but something about seeing you there,

just for a few minutes, 

took away that klaxon 

ringing over and over and over again in my brain.

I want to express this to you, 

thank you, but how 

do I speak to you? 

How do I possibly express how

your presence temporarily 

vanquished my despondency? 

Solitude in a dwelling with

curious tongues & hard hearts

leaves you to assume it’s easier to

not talk than to talk

and not be understood. 

What would I even say?

“Guten tag, frauline, wie geht, good, good.

Oh, by the way, your sax really

cured my homesick blues.

No, I don’t have money for you today,

I am too poor with my pittance, 

mein mausebär, but I hope

this comment from a stupid Yankee tourist

reaches you just the same.”

No, I’m afraid such Hollywood dialogue

does little good in a city that 

prefers stage over screen. 

Celluloid is merely a flammable photo album. 

And what good could come of

you speaking to me,

a Midwestern Philistine who dares to

waltz into your country unannounced? 

If I can barely exchange tongues 

in the lingual sense, what right do 

I have to do the same in the 

passionate sense? 

There are thousands in this bursting city

more worthy of conversation,

and they make their advances before me anyhow.

Someone says something to you & 

your laugh harmonizes with the 

pitter-pattering hiccough of

Viennese drizzle, and your perfume covers

like its aromatic petrichor. 

I leave in an attempt to distract myself,

yet, years & years still after I part, 

your image & your melody 

cauterize into my subconscious. 

Even in America, dominated by its 

daydreams of strawberry milkshakes and 

cherry cola lips,

I’m surrounded by cookie dough gelato

and sweet Riesling breath. 

Even funeral homes have their 

hints of lavender. 

My mind pounds with regret as 

my feet drag with defiance 

across the pavement parallel with the Danube. 

Where did you go? Where will I go? 

Where are we now? Where will we be? 

Who are we? 

I see a mural of a thousand eyes, 

all telling me to “keep smiling.”