Last Watchtower, Potsdamer Platz

blocks, her hour shovelled up

and, scraping-knifed, devoured by

a taste that flips from sweet to sour.

Friendless, wilting, concrete flower.

Her rifle-petals glowered over

Mountain-Mauer, death strip, failure.

Her power was a bullet wound.

The dour bees who, seething at

Herr Adenauer’s jeans-clad buddies,

buzzed around the tower-stalk

and, left wings beating madly, scoured

their terrain, thought once to plough a

sting-tail, in a shower, through

your head. But now a chap can buy

his frau a coffee-maker here.