On the wall in my room a temporary sunlight,
valiantly struggles with a shadow, or perhaps
they are dancing a slow waltz: see a tiny bust
of Johann Straus on the bookshelf who spent
the last ten years of his life moving from town
to town in the hope of escaping death.
I look out of the window, a river of cars and
a bank, outside it an expensive car is illegally
parked, a patrol car slows but doesn´t stop as
the car oozes economic power; stops instead
near a cyclist, an officer tells the pedaler to
use the road and not the pavement.
Waltz is over and rough sea slams against
the porthole, I must have been dreaming or
is it my past and future that dance macabre?