While Waiting for a White Trabant

Ten to midnight on a laser brain day,
east of the wall (possibly, probably) but surely
somewhere between Brandenburger Tor and
forever,

i popped another mint and hummed along
to Snoop Dogg oozing from a third story
cracked frame in this coal charred Stalin's
Stonehedge, and the cracks in the pavement
leered a tar and pebble grin up at me.

"Now, there's something to write a poem
about," it croaked, "Russia rots like
gangrene, and America spreads like smallpox,
where's your pen, man, where's your paper?"

"What's there to write," I hissed
into the back of my teeth, behind rigid lips,
because pavement speaks to me and me alone,
and who knows what Polizei do to random
loiteres who talks to themselves? "now
that you've already said it all?"

It spoke no more, but I could feel both
discontent and petty pride under each step,
together with the slight trembles of pent up
wanderlust that any road will radiate which
only runs around the block.

Five to midnight the music died, the
voltage hum crackled and dissapeared
and every window went black.

And I was left with the hollow obelisks
edging closer, a faint St Elmo's Fire
stretching between the roofs and very
old, very angry words rushing in to fill
every last pocket of silence with
an even deeper one.