Poetry

The best part of the afternoon

Not the museums or churches,
the square of statues clinging to their
thin coats of watery sunlight. Instead,

the unexpected tangle of markets:
shacks offering brandy and pretzels,
meats frying in alien spices,

musicians gleaming in the park beyond
the last stall. Beyond them, ice skaters
riding the dusk, tracing fleeting tracks
on a field holding its mirror to the sky.

Joe Caldwell