Spindly roses
in thick, August heat.
No stirring of leaf, no bird
to trouble the air.
Music streams from open
windows to three
stone benches, two in shade.

Hospitals surround the house.
We wandered the usual labyrinth
of Prague streets to find it,
passing one dull brass plaque
faintly etched Psychiatric.

Perhaps those with thunder raging
in their heads, those circled
by profound sorrow, press their ears
to the glass to hear the rise and fall
of notes, some brief respite,
a reclamation of joy.