She cowers there among the office
blocks, her hour shovelled up
and, scraping-knifed, devoured by
a taste that flips from sweet to sour.
Friendless, wilting, concrete flower.
Her rifle-petals glowered over
Mountain-Mauer, death strip, failure.
Her power was a bullet wound.
The dour bees who, seething at
Herr Adenauer’s jeans-clad buddies,
buzzed around the tower-stalk
and, left wings beating madly, scoured
their terrain, thought once to plough a
sting-tail, in a shower, through
your head. But now a chap can buy
his frau a coffee-maker here.
