At Rilke's Restaurant and Pub: Raron, Switzerland

At Rilke’s Restaurant and Pub: Raron, Switzerland

Not a single wedding ring to be seen
On these hands that lift the backlit glasses
Of golden beer to mustachioed mouths.

I don’t know what they’re saying but I know 
What they’re talking about — how hot it is,
And shouldn’t be, not because of climate change
But because it’s ruining the fishing.

I suspect that they suspect that I’m here
To see the poet’s grave. He wasn’t born 
Here, just showed up one day before they were
And three years later died. On his gravestone, 
Something weird about eyelids and roses. 

Before I’m out the door, one of them 
Hazards a goodbye. Bye, I say. 
Bye, the others say.
Bye. Bye.