“Joan Is My Mother’s Name” – Craig Teatime

The night of our life, And the home that could be, It’s mostly just a room, With enough beds for a group of sleazy English lads, Or the accounting department catching a weekend off, To quench that age-old ambition Of a weekend bender abroad.   Ha-ha, see – It’s less of an apartment and more of a factory, Our Airbnb. I’ve heard of the Czech spring rising — Until the tanks closed in on those soft children And the Vltava was stripped of all its blue, Closing tight and killing any chance of life, The way that those who can close, do. Yet still for us, This is Prague in autumn, The music from the greasy bar rising up to the window sill that’s Broken and doesn’t close, Mind the shower’s cracked tray, Skin oils cold on bed clothes. The host knows, But what’s there to say – it was...