I still eat toasted white bread
with thinsliced strawberries
and small sugar hills:
Could be noisy Rotterdam.

I still mix up urban blues
and chagrin d’amour
and call it open relationship:
Could be the ugly part of Paris.

Sometimes I juggle with lemons
next to a Czech red fridge
having a flower square in mind:
Could be a ******-up poetry-slam
in Berlin.

And I still wear t-shirts with
vintage anthrazit windmills:
Could be either Don Quichote
or Don Juan trying to rewrite
their script.