K

 

[K]

 

Prague. Autumn Twenty Twenty-Three. Dear K.,

the lid lifts on the world, but what’s for supper?

I reply to yours of the 1st inst. Suffer

I have your number so have a nice day.

 

New paragraph. The cravat is back and very.

Bureaucrats have bungled again alas

glass newspapers call their faces faceless.

Archduke is a word in a dictionary.

 

Next year is your mortal centenary.

Bravo to all your unburnt manuscripts!

I have to answer this phone call, okay?

Public statues praise entomology.

Every room in town somehow comes to grips.

Until next time, as they say, they would, K.