FRANKFURT-BERLIN

No warning, the past parallel-parks its ’96 Vandura.

Maroon-tinted windows and nu-prog mixtapes

at the cobblestone curb on Johann-Sigismund.

Your foam mattress on the floor. -30 mummy bag

and thumbdrives chock with road pics from the 97 North

to Denali. Your relaxed blue jeans, straw fedora, bare ass

mooning the lens. The audacity

of your old Chevy to follow us here, cross the Atlantic,

dust off our tryst and make it shine.

In real time, your drop-C six-string hushed

by the cacophony of cognitive theory and commuter trains.

The ICE violins drawing their harmonic numbers

of high frequency and tension. Cheer up, babe.

Let’s duck under the awning of Café MetroPol,

watch the West’s chic passengers

dab the compact Mercedes streets.

Look, here’s our phone booth

offering its cobwebs, concert T-shirts,

quick-change quarters and dimes.

You’re still so handsome. Take me for a ride.