POTSDAMER PLAZA
The gold has hung from the rooftops here.
For years they have sequestered stories and
only brought out memories near Easter or the
feast of Saint Heidrich the Martyr. We are
sitting in the Blu Gestalfder sipping beers and
watching the autos glide by. Not a Trabant to be seen.
Delivery vans and German ladies often look so much
alike as they wander by, one tooting for Deutschmarks
and the other for what they can get. Your face seems
slightly pock-marked in this light and it leads me to wonder
if that is acceptable. For so many other reasons people have
been taken away from here, in fact an entire lillied grave of
love forlorn could have been made from what came out of
this very burgh, I bet. Now, probably, it doesn't matter, since
we are launched for freedom like some garish American rocket.
Above our heads, cranes move things about, entire floors
are lifted to be put in place by airborne genii motioning
with hands. This seems almost perverse:
-
Me in the sunlight with sausage and beer, you staring out
ahead, seeking fashions in the Germanesque rotunda.
Nothing built, yet so much promise still. I put my
sunglasses on so you can see your reflection on my
eyes. We are happily stupid. It's like that forever,
I guess.
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