The frame Poem by János Lackfi

I was just in the middle of eating a gyros,
my leisurely steps carrying me along in the crowd,
a black computer bag dangling on one shoulder.
When I'm in town, in between two errands.
I often choose this none-too-elegant
but, for all that, more informal and busy way of eating.
The eyes of oncoming passers-by slips to the food in my hand
and they swallow mightily.
At times the juice may trickle out of the gyros,
so it's best to take care of what I'm wearing.
The sauce may sometimes dribble down my cheeks,
and if I take a look around,
I encounter looks of disapproval.
Besides which, it's a little tricky to fish for a hankie in the pocket
when the hands are covered in sauce.
That day, though, the cellophane bag
into which my gyros had been packed was well sealed,
so I tucked away and cast an indolent look over the crowd.
Ruddy-faced alcoholics panting in a search for the first open bar.
Old dame who must have lived through at least one world war
had their heads hung low,
carrying a shopping bag as they tried to get through life.
This here's a little boy tugging at Mummy's hand
as the lady is preoccupied by talking to someone else;
if he goes on like this, he'll soon wrench free.
Over there is an artist of some sort,
a half-wit in a jazzy suit and a colourful titfer,
his beard braided,
carrying on his shoulders an enormous picture frame that
almost reaches the ground, a faded canvas under his arm.
The frame is empty, there is no canvas in it;
all it shows is the reality behind it.
Just as much as the rectangle will cut out of the life in the street.
The artist type plays on this.
He experiments with positioning the frame around the alcoholic,
the old dame, the chatty Mum,
and finally the little boy,
who has at last succeeded in breaking loose
and right now is staring at a computer game in a shop window.
The artist type hasn't noticed that I'm watching what he does.
He steals behind the child, slightly adjusts the frame and then,
when he feels that the figure of the boy
staring into the shop window exactly fits the frame,
he quickly grabs the faded canvas,
spreads it over the picture,
and hastily steps back.
I can follow his departing figure for a while in the crowd,
but it is then that I become aware of the Mummy's shriek of alarm.
She and her interlocutor question the passers-by
as to whether they've seen the kid anywhere.
He was here just a moment ago, several of them say.
Not seen any child at all, say some others.
There is no-one standing by the shop window.
I take a pensive bite from my gyros.

Translated by Tim Wilkinson