Kafka and Macaroons – A Poem

 

Kafka and Macaroons

I was told that Kafka liked macaroons
and would eat them as he sailed
the highlands searching for senoritas.

But no blossoming maids did he find
there. Only an epitaph of a man
written in Greek and a lonely

soul smiling at the glossy French doors
of a desolate café that stood next to an
abandoned art gallery, boarded up along a

black tar road. Poor Kafka with his long
coat and nervous smile felt obliged to hold
company and converse with the spirit who once

spent his days creeping the avenues and allies
spitting philosophy at mothers and their children
who were just looking to go to the arcades

before they closed them down to build
the stargazing temples. Kafka was just
looking to find the sweet senoritas

tanning a pale blue in the high altitude
sun while smoking cigarillos fresh
from Havana or Portugal, but here he

was with that soul, that spirit, that spilled a
cacophony of bullshit, going on about how light
is the imagination of the children

of God meshed and mended and spun
fine, fairly laid in the golden groves
sprawling the lanes of memory and Kafka

was forced to sneeze to excuse himself from
the monotonous drivel so he could continue his
search sailing along the mountain vales for the

delicate feminine debauchery, glad how the macaroons
tasted fine in the clean air when the clouds still
touched the land and the fog yet lingered on till

well after
noon.

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