But of course there are violins in Budapest

heard on the street from the vaulted cafes

players who chant in nicotine voices

titles of tunes you forgot that you know

something Zigeuner, or The Blue Danube

though tonight that river as seen from our street

as dark as the Unicum poured in our glasses

has its own sound, a kind of dialect

not harsh or precise as Russian or German

a freedom of sorts, like a wad of forint

tucked beneath the neck of a violin

saved until later, until after

the pizzicato is finished and applauded

like a cigarette behind the ear, or the taste

of Unicum beyond the first bitterness

to a promise of sweetness that lies beyond.