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.