by Barbara Siegel Carlson
Two o’clock on his way home. Sun beats
down his neck, so he takes a different route.
A pigeon begins to gurgle
as though calling Franz, Franz,
your dinner is ready ! The voice sounds
like his old nurse who gave him oatmeal in bed and told him
the story of a man whose back was scarred
with a map of a city. A building’s
on fire — the walls roar
into the sky. For a moment a human figure ripples
at one of the windows
into a soundless plume.