JON PINEDA

Statue

Years ago, searching the city for the statue,
we found it expressionless in a cathedral,
a child holding the world out to anyone.
We had no money. We drank thin soup for lunch.
Gypsies laughed at tourists, while in bars skinheads
peered at other tables & did not speak. It was
how it was. Walking through Old Town Square,
we saw a man piss his name on cobblestones,
harsh consonants vanished with the vowels.
He stumbled, steadied himself against a wall.
Neither one of us said, Are you all right?
Some things are never misunderstood.
On Charles Bridge, the statues of saints left
shadows over a circle of those playing guitars.
A girl stood up & swayed in its radius.
We froze as she held out her hands,
the palms opening as if she might catch
some of the stars raining down on us all.

--for Nick Montemarano