At a bustop in Berlin

From this accusatory stance she mimes
a script that’s read innumerous:
Eyes screwed hard on a rush-hour slew
headphones in, a pirate playlist
(warms the surface of her eardrum)
thoughtful not of ancient mew
but yellow capsules caught and missed
she hums the tune through chewing gum
and with it sings the city’s rhymes.

Wheels creep over bottle shards
indignant bikers, avant gardes,
parking cops who shake their heads
at impertinence and hopelessness:
They worry over winter’s corpse
stained by beer and coffee served
on pavements bold in fancy dress,
“What of the all rules we laid last year?!”
in this season born with no regards.

She pauses as her yellow ride,
approaches between the sun’s appointments,
from the bulbous shadow spiked on high
to a toxic thread of undead concrete
draped over a mascaraed dome across the street
now calm in her intentions
she dreams of how her life has turned
much greener than the shelter map.

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