(yeah, it's a poem. so what?)
The Chinese lady races the garbage truck
Her cart piled impossibly high
With cans from overnight hustle.
The sun burns the air
Inside the cars parked for the day.
Proof that the owners work in town
Or have called in sick
Or aren't working at all.
The squeak of busses and cabs
as they jockey among the cars and the bikes
and the young ladies walking with too many bags
while the two-strapping intern moves
like he doesn't even know it's hot
A butterfly finds beauty among the weeds.
Or was it a moth?
English sparrows and starlings fill the gaps
in the man-made noise.
They displaced the natives, too.
All these little moments.
I try not to sweat.
The humidity irons my pants.
The meeting starts soon.
An evening drink on the deck is not so far away.
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Berlin
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