Too late, too late. I’ve missed out on
a Fox’s Viennese Melt.
I wish I knew in my imagination
how one of these biscuits smelled.
Scent and taste are closely linked, experts say,
but our poetic group lacked inspiration
when they tried out their skills today
as this Austrian treat they munched on.
I try to think now what Vienna means to me,
although I’ve never visited this city.
In stately rooms where Freud diagnosed
the Hapsburg empire died and decomposed.
Cakes and pastries, schnitzel and frilled waltzes,
they help explain this soft target for the Nazis.
Ripe and falling, an imperial promenade,
redeemed by the dream of a Mozart serenade,
Vienna melts, decays in sun and rain,
the neurotic, fading heart of Europe,
queen of the dance that cannot escape stain,
sweetened by the sound of music’s syrup.
So, dear Jo, perhaps you can find
space in your anthology
for one more gloomy rhapsody
that does not take the biscuit but leaves it …far behind.