oil-drum braziers burn
late into the Berlin night;
spikes and mohawks
warm themselves
in a sultry august heat.
it's an urban patterned jungle
of spray paint and tags
as the S-Bahn trundles
high on its way, above
the clamour of 1991.
I'd only just arrived
and my small provincial eyes
tried not to flicker
or shy from the sights
of those underbelly vistas;
was it deprivation or freedom,
necessity or choice, to stand
around a burning barrel late at night?
my host assured me
we're perfectly safe
as long as I listen to
her expert advice.
And then we arrived,
leaving the car outside
we got through on
the guest list
and so started our night.