Kafka's Birthplace

Walking into the grey village

people you see all walk away

with a furtive look….the bread

in the shops is all day old…

The bar was empty, save for

an old man in overcoat, slumped

over his drink. The bartender

was wiping a glass.

“Where’s the party?” I said…

the bartender didn’t flinch…

kept wiping the glass…

“I’ll have a whisky.”

The bartender moved like

an automaton…without

expression.

The bartender poured the

whisky, left the bottle on

the bar…..walked to the

other end of the bar and

began wiping the same glass.

Finished my drink, put some

money on the bar…walked

outside…the sky was grey,

the street gave no hint of

comings or goings…the air

held it’s breath.