Your feast (your death-day) was yesterday.

You were thrown from the cliff or maybe pushed down in a wheelbarrow,

depending on your choice of story.

Patron saint of Budapest,

the city that made me love cities.

Dirt and grime and hot trash and stale sweat,

signs of life

II.

there was a tub of water, maybe five foot tall. it was tucked away

between the drained pool and the white tile shower no one used.

I always thought it might be off-limits, but we would climb the few-runged ladder and throw our

little bodies in

a game of endurance,

whose limbs would go numb first.

I wonder if you rolled all the way into the Danube. it must’ve been cold too.

III.

4-es metro, Gellért tér

brand new, but a 70s scifi dream. maybe this is what the future looks like—

concrete and Brutalist, like a Soviet panelház. I’m glad it kept the orange and yellow.