A Magazine of Many Arts

We had reservations,

luckily made months in advance;

even our inferior hostelry was filled.

Everyone wanted to visit the place

before it was too late. Some tourists

who expected lodging to be available

had meltdowns right there in the dank

lobby. We spent the debased currency

as if it were water, but icy native eyes

followed us with hostility, even though

we learned a common local greeting

(which translated roughly as Repentâ€”

the end is near). Their famed arcades

appeared smaller than the guidebooksâ€™

gushing descriptions, and the details

oddly rounded, compared to earlier

photos. Uncooperative guards would

not let us climb gleaming staircases

(Slippery When Wet signs impeded us

everywhere), nor allow us to set foot on

translucent bridges, even when offered

lavish bribes. Ancient statues of crystal

seemed to have shrunk and smoothed

further each time we passed by them.

Everywhere, deepening puddles lapped

at our ankles, and we shivered despite

the crowds in whose warmth we nestled.

We complained loudly about the dearth

of portable heaters, the dampness, plus

the lack of authentic restorations, and

asked them why they could not simply

move their planet further from its sun.

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