Odyssey of the Fly, Poetry
Berlin, 2012

A man, a civilian,
stands at gunpoint
outside the metro,
he negotiates with two men
in stern, black uniforms —
his hands are moving
inside his rucksack,
the police talk to him
as if shaming a dog.
As we move,
I await the clack
of pistol rounds
or the gastric blast
of a satchel charge,
but nothing comes,
nothing came of it,
we heard no gunshots,
so now we drink beer
in the hostel and muse
with a girl from Brussels,
who instructs us to visit Bruges.