Everywhere
Gaping tourists:
Leicas, Nikons, Minoltas holding visual court.
As Uncle says,
Life’s become a spectator sport.
Even with the streets silly with people—
Matrons and barmen, butchers and teachers—
Someone’s trying to nudge history
A bit to the right or left for composition’s sake,
Diddling with the light, the drama of millimeters.
Someone’s explaining to the surprised
how there are no surprises.
Gretel was yelling her hidden soul out
For her Vater who tripped up in the mid-60s
And slit his wrists one quiet evening.
Meanwhile
Some guy tried the moves on her.
“You’re sweet goods under any ideology.”
“Thus, capitalism begins,”
She sniffed back at him.
Karl pronounced it the Woodstock of anger—
The way people frolicked,
that twitchy, beleaguered kick.
No stateside idealism,
the Hendrix waft of freaky hope,
This was edgier yet jolly too
like an air-escaping balloon.
On the mornings after, pensioners sifted the litter
for treasure.
Policemen prodded the embers of duty.
Two placards tumbled in the wind’s sigh:
“Brecht is dead at last.”
“Brecht can never die.”
Auntie told Gretel a dab of horseradish
in schnapps was the sovereign
remedy for a sore throat,
But Gretel said she didn’t mind
being hoarse. It was her passion
and it was her choice.
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