Almost crying over a German memoir

       understandable, in that he was a great man, cooking kidneys

       & getting married.
The backpackers line up to check their Facebooks,

must learn to examine faces & not tits as much.
A quiet little butt going up library stairs in jeans.
To have been born before money

			& still be a child

with hands to peck out grand, peaceful

hunts across the typewriter
that end in a violin recital, for laughter & applause,

& beer mixed to 2 parts Chinotto in the hours

before cool summer dawn.
The architect checks his phone.

The round lamps on.
To have a halo. 	A face, kind arms.
To be a flying book.