terminus: please leave the train.

If I die in Prague no one
will remember my name. Letters
will slip between cracked
cobblestones—a consonant here, a
vowel there. No street will take
my name, no statue, monument.
No one will rest small stones
upon my grave or set up
stands to sell memorabilia.

Last night, young Czechs
rolled joints on the beergarden
tables. Bits of grass caught
the wind, went hang-gliding. Rolled
down the hill. Took wrong
turns. Got lost beneath city
spires, fingers slim and squirming
pointing to heaven. Came
to rest among streetlamps and stone.

Today, when I die in Prague,
Charles Bridge will still be heaving,
cement seams bursting with tourists.
They will congregate to watch death
ring his golden bell, Astronomical
Clock chiming. They will not
notice my absence, but the river
Vltava will whisper Katie,
the rain will echo Budris.