Happily

On the busy sunlit city street

trams shriek on their tracks.

I walk up the stone steps

and beneath the architrave

into the cool dark of the ground floor arcade

past the ticket kiosk, bank, and flower shop,

the stairway down to the cinema, the art gallery,

stop

at the ice cream cafe

for an espresso

and a scoop,

courtyard in bright dazzling

light around the corner

beyond the vacant

storefront papered-over,

turn and

ring the bell

and get buzzed in

through an opaque narrow doorway

and there’s my friend,

a sixty-ish year-old Czech guy, tall, thin,

with curly, gray-blond, dullish hair,

fan and student of the American Civil War,

about which I know so little

and so little about so much else.

He smiles when he sees me,

he’s my friend.

He knows a few words of English,

I a few of Czech.

We chat a little, every day,

to the extent we’re able.

From behind his counter

he shakes my hand,

extends his arm,

and lets me pass,

and I climb happily

up the four flights of stairs

to my class.