harbor crossing 
the sun casts my shadow 
into the water  

Late morning, I wander around Fort St. Angelo in Birgu, admiring the views, absorbing history, and watching a crew set up 500-plus drones for the fireworks display in the Grand Harbour. It’s warm in the sun, cool in the shade, and surprisingly uncrowded considering the number of cruise ships unloading elderly couples two by two.

I keep crossing paths with a middle-aged man guiding his parents around the fort, often enough to give them a nod and smile in passing. They’re ahead of me on some stairs when the noon-day cannon is fired. We all freeze and then the father turns to me and says, “Putin.” I laugh, but the son seems embarrassed and moves him aside so I can pass.

In the evening, I see the son and his mother in the Oratory of St. John’s Co-Cathedral as we wait to watch a musical on Caravaggio’s The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist. “Where’s Mr. Putin?” I say to the son, trying to be friendly and give him some context should he not recognize me from this afternoon. He stares at me for a couple seconds and slowly enunciates, “Waiting for important call,” and then settles his mother farther down the row.

show time 
the thrum of gut strings 
in the dark 

Bio: Bob Lucky