In Krakow, everyday at midday
The trumpet sounds at each compass direction
Of the town square’s clock tower.
In its final directional note,
Legend has it an invasion struck
The trumpeter’s throat with an arrow,
Recording an awkward
Abrupt
Violent
And haunting
Squeak
Into Krakow’s collective memory.
It is only new to tourists.
It is replayed everyday.
You hear the trumpet squeak
When a person of color walks
Through the square and all the Poles
Stop and stare.
You hear the trumpet squeak
when you tour Jagiellonian University
And look at the stolen Islamic
Scientific instruments displayed
Behind glass.
You hear the trumpet squeak
When you catch a group of Ray Bans
Taking selfies on the empty chairs
of the Holocaust memorial in the old ghetto.
You hear the trumpet squeak
To drown out the cries for justice
From those punished for helping
terminate unwanted pregnancies.
You hear the trumpet squeak
When your field of vision in a milk bar’s
Nostalgically memorabilliad counter
Is filled by the hungry eyes of a young working student
Who may not find anything better
Than asking for your order.
You hear the trumpet squeak
When the Old Jewish Quarter
Come club-district spills over
With testosterone and alcohol.
You hear the trumpet squeak
When the stumbler from the end
Of a night and that chemical mix
Vomits across the alley from the
Jewish Cemetery
erasing Stars of David with his spew.
You hear the trumpet squeak
As you leave the city limits
And find yourself in two places at once
Between the gates of Auschwitz
and the town of Oświęcim.
You hear the trumpet squeak
As you accelerate down the highway
Passing carpools of brain drain and hope
Towards the border.
CHID major making little things a big deal.
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