I breakfast with Bertolt Brecht under the linden.
My plate shines yellow, his an orange glow.
The fried egg, burst open between us both,
no longer screams for attention:
thanks to the sun, thank heavens.
‘Mein Lieber Freund’, he casually remarks,
‘Do you believe in Eastern Europe?’
The treetops a tightrope, each bole
a crammed tea ball. As we bid farewell
he gives me the recipe for a cocktail
long gone out of fashion, and asks me never
again to hammer at the truth. Danke schön I say,
for letting me hold him by the arms, ab und zu.