Howard Firkin
You’d think that no one ever went to Ghent.
"Where’s that?" and "Why? What’s there?" "Has anyone
gone anywhere in Belgium just for fun?"
My time and cash could both be better spent.
Futility and Ghent. It’s quite a team.
It’s easier to find an ATM
than find another penetrable vein;
they shrink like startled cephalopods and stain
my skin with inky bruises. Chasing them
is chasing you or any other dream.

The architecture’s fine. The crowds are light.
My euros vanish, thin as morning mist.
The hotel staff are pointedly polite.
The chemicals disperse and we are kissed.