It is a freedom fought and worth
the small slow drag on a Cuban cigar,
the long drawn out
spiral of smoke
and the collection of brown
spit that chokes the air
off the Danube, only briefly
before it becomes invisible
but toxin rich, before it is joined
by the steaming coffee, stronger
than home, sending its aromatic
desire up the street in a kind of wanton
come hither eyes and stroke
of the silk stocking that I watch
of one woman on her young friend;