Читать книгу Albrecht Dürer and me - David Zieroth - Страница 8

Viennese shoes

in Wien, even the homeless wear good shoes

or at least one bedraggled, bearded, filthy-

coated giant managed uncommonly decent leather

brogues that toe-curl a bit, an Italian smile

intimating heat and lust and care for craft

yes, any change of place forces up generalizations

rife and ready, and even knowing how quickly

scenes arise in the mind: lithe men, short hair

long strides, briefcases, or young artists debating

over Styrian beer and new wine spritzers the edge

of mathematical, abstract space – I know really

very little: glittering steel lines of the tram

on Ungargasse, straight under my feet

and along some sections, short grass snuggles

green against silver – earth and engineering

power-sharing – what could either say to the other

about times when heels of famous men

clacked these cobblestones: Freud’s boots, how he

slipped into leather smoothly pleased with strength,

and Hitler’s shoes, paint bespattered, then further back

and further back again until an Ottoman stands

outside the ringed wall of the city, 300 cannon strong

the story goes, Grand Vizier Pasha tapping

his magnificent Asian slippers on these stones