Holyday in Zürich

A holyday in Zürich can

be known with near certainty

by the stigmata of teenaged beer

spilled along sidewalks astride the papery

shells of old Ronald’s farmless edibles,

revealed as the sun rises to meet

only the ghosts of suited creditors

and racewalking Bahnhof-hoppers,

and the solitude of a pilgrim—

oneself, perhaps—dodging the

traces of yesterday’s throng, en route

to where, just maybe, another pilgrim has

pointed her morning stride, all to say, you

are alone, and I am too, so we may as well

be alone in this together.

 

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