In Prague
Drunk on a pyramid and glad
where booze was available
and the rooms free, for all we cared;
our only concern how to kiss
girls and not say the stupid thing.
But the stupid thing
would be said, and no longer glad—
the girls having gone unkissed,
disappointed and more unavailable
than ever, we burned
and like a blessing in other cities tried kissing
the same girls with the same care-
free swagger we faked so badly—and being available
to heartbreak, the stupid thing
we loved, made us glad
though unnaturally
sensitive it did us little good kissing
or not kissing; we’d never be glad
in cities at home or far away.
Everything seemed available
that summer: so even saying the stupid thing
didn’t seem so bad, though kissing
the girls now seemed like taking careless
chances with our luck.
I was lucky
to be so unhappy, the stupid thing
becoming practically natural.
