This poem is inspired by a man I once saw on Charles Bridge in Prague.

Statues line a bridge
in Prague
looking down on
morning jogs
and walking dogs
and passing crowds
of selfie-takers
using all these
ornate wonders
as a way to
set the scene
without a thought
for what they mean
as pigeons sit
on chiselled heads
a man pulling his
his suitcase

Pauses

Stops at each
to soak them in
to hear them speak
the voice of artists
long deceased
connecting through
the centuries
with stone

A bridge

A suitcase stopped
and now it’s rolling on