Thursday, July 14, 2016


Below me a cityscape floats
Blue like the tunes of an unsung song

We don't know each other
We have been strangers passing along, always in a hurry

You have never asked me my name
And, I have never asked you yours.
I have never held your hand in a map
And walked through your very straight roads, looking for nothing.

Your past, the people you lined up for the concentration camp
My future, my head in line before a rioting mob
I have always been careful to avoid eye contact
I am scared of the things I might see

But, amidst the trams, hustle bustle
I do have conversations that walk late into the night
Figuring the world we live in, exchanging traveller's tales
Friends who mean a lot, despite the kilometers and years

I will be a tourist
I will walk through the graves you made
The walls you built and broke

Let us count our foibles
My penchant for wrong words
Your ugly buildings
My thoughts which ramble as incoherent words through strange alleys
Your cars which try to squash pedestrians.

But, before I catch the last train and leave, a few words

frozen yogurt-grave of Brecht-strange walk back when you feel a lot and nothing-conversations that I collect like miser's coins, to treasure and play back again-the shy Chinese girl who makes it her job to ensure that the lost stranger crawls through the city's traffic to the right tram-
Maybe, I could love you; if not for the history.

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