Budapest

It’s an odd hour in Budapest,
that time when one finds themselves all alone,
passing vagrants who rummage through the trash,
searching for scraps of whatever and possibly some salvation,

I’d been drinking,
which I guess is good and bad,
coming fresh off of a philosophical conversation,
with an ideological Kiwi,

I couldn’t crush her ideological exuberance,
with my aged cynicism,
even if I’d wanted to,
because I respected her passionate optimism too much,

or not enough,
either way,
I was as alone now,
as I was before I met her,
except I felt lonelier,
because we all feel lonelier,
after having had the company of a friend,
or a stranger,
whatever,
it doesn’t matter now,

I’m several drinks in,
and I’m back at my rooftop apartment,
across from The Dohany Street Synagogue,
retreating into my writing which is where I find myself now,

at this odd hour in Budapest,
that time when one finds themselves all alone,
passing vagrants who rummage through the trash,
searching for scraps of whatever and possibly some salvation…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

author of The Poetry Trilogy
author of The H Trilogy
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