Six floors, no balcony, nineteenth century Berlin flats.
one gang of bickering Turkish brats.
twentyseven square meters, 2 windows, 8 walls
two coal burning ovens and a slate gray sky,
a slate gray coffee and a slate gray mind.
one plastic, yellow bathtub, three wooden cups
and a red, painted tui beside a rowan branch.
one cold autumn wind, scarf, shoes, hoody.
one thousand rough-cut, well-worn cobble stones
six floor soot stained facades.
five gangly gipsy women; they do not beg here; they beg where the money is
three German red faced drunks, Prost! Prost! Gesundheit!
the gaudy Turkish shops.
two euro fifty, two pieces of bread, fives slashes of meat,
four scoops of salad, one squirt of herb sauce
danke schön, bitte schön
three Muslim ladies only their eyes to see
one Somali German he came here to be free
a Turkish man is singing, its beautiful to hear
an unkindness of crows, a twitter of sparrows
the abandoned factories
one dried up healing spring,
and one playful little river flanked by weeping willows