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.
1 December 2011