And you, Český Krumlov

I save my wow for the finishing line,
my jelly book of scraps, my smudgy blurs,
your snug little map from a sheet on wine
and Wiki facts. I’ve no need to refer

to Egg and Berry brewery, to the pack
of Czechy words I made but didn’t work
in this pink town. I’d readily go back
to your best spots, the unfired gun, that perk

of puppet shops and pseudo fresco walls.
I tap on Google Earth for Krumlov views
and listen for the boat men’s river calls,
a city drowned and drained again. At news

that ships once sailed your streets, my mind’s a-whirr
so I now write my wow, my cri de coeur.

Hot desk

Sexy wits try the swingers’ club from here,
a bulky list of names, tastes and rendezvous.
Others come for WiFi, work and leave
a cup of dregs, a greasy burger box,
a syringe and spoon in the WC.
Someone puts her eyes on at the screen,
swipes primer on the glass and lets it dry.
Another, digging notches in the splintered desk,
knocks off the days until retirement.
Those who never quit leave jackets on the chair
and come to work to find themselves.
Familiar with the dustpan, the divine
who wipes the desk of dabs, takes out the cans
and walks the wine-dark asphalt to the bins.