Poem for Cologne...and Accountants
Four to One
The darkened bars of Köln offered their sanctuary,
as the spires of the Dom shot towards heaven.
We were regarded by curious watchers perched on barstools.
Booze gurgled towards the back of their throats, like gargoyles in reverse,
hastily trying to wash away the bitter tonguing of a lusty guilt.
He patted his wallet against thieves before I reminded him,
"My eyes are open and your back pocket is a good place for them to be."
Elsewhere, in the homes of our countrymen, eyes were fixed
on young men in cleats and shorts running between divided sides.
But in Köln our breath mingled over pints of Guinness.
He told me he was a young professor and I had the sudden urge to learn.
My college years not yet finished and there I was across the ocean
in a country where I am more at home than in my own
and I want them to win - those players on the field.
But the bar closes at one and already our glasses are empty.
As we walk towards our hotels, heading north,
the Dom lights fail and we are left with a dark, empty silence;
the odds better of parting and losing than of ever seeing each other again.
A clumsy exchange of names and numbers, a quick kiss,
a chane to ask for he score - four to one - in favor
of my man from Berlin.
--The poem above is a reflection on roughly two hours spent in Cologne (Germans write and pronounce it as Köln) with a Professor of Accounting who works at Potsdamer University in Berlin. We met on Wednesday night, the 22 of March, which happened to be the same day the Americans and Germans faced each other in the World Cup football match.
--I'm toying with the idea of actually trying to get this one published, which is saying something because I haven't had the urge to do that in a long time. Constructive criticism appreciated.
The darkened bars of Köln offered their sanctuary,
as the spires of the Dom shot towards heaven.
We were regarded by curious watchers perched on barstools.
Booze gurgled towards the back of their throats, like gargoyles in reverse,
hastily trying to wash away the bitter tonguing of a lusty guilt.
He patted his wallet against thieves before I reminded him,
"My eyes are open and your back pocket is a good place for them to be."
Elsewhere, in the homes of our countrymen, eyes were fixed
on young men in cleats and shorts running between divided sides.
But in Köln our breath mingled over pints of Guinness.
He told me he was a young professor and I had the sudden urge to learn.
My college years not yet finished and there I was across the ocean
in a country where I am more at home than in my own
and I want them to win - those players on the field.
But the bar closes at one and already our glasses are empty.
As we walk towards our hotels, heading north,
the Dom lights fail and we are left with a dark, empty silence;
the odds better of parting and losing than of ever seeing each other again.
A clumsy exchange of names and numbers, a quick kiss,
a chane to ask for he score - four to one - in favor
of my man from Berlin.
--The poem above is a reflection on roughly two hours spent in Cologne (Germans write and pronounce it as Köln) with a Professor of Accounting who works at Potsdamer University in Berlin. We met on Wednesday night, the 22 of March, which happened to be the same day the Americans and Germans faced each other in the World Cup football match.
--I'm toying with the idea of actually trying to get this one published, which is saying something because I haven't had the urge to do that in a long time. Constructive criticism appreciated.