The carwash garage roars in the light of the evening sky,
the pulled beef patty frizzles in the spattering oil and the
ravioli receives a shower of cheese gratings – melting and merging.
Paul whose name is sewed in light pink on his black apron, calls out loud
“Cappuccino für Karla!”
The Berlin Palast runs a matinee – Super Deluxe.
Crowded. I peel myself away from the queue and
make my way through the cobbled lanes.
I see the signs
‘Montagebau’, ‘Immer, Überall, Wilkommen’
The shop window is squeaky clean, its double doors varnished brown.
Some words are painted in blazing red, cursive italic font,
‘Sale for ALL SAINTS’.
(All Saints? How ironic)
A truck passes by me.
‘Familientradition’ is plastered on it in blue and gold.
(What’s a truck got to do with family tradition, I wonder).
I want to write this down.
I take my blue notebook out and forage my tote for my LAMY.
My pen slips from my fingers,
somersaults across the street and
falls on the road only to get crushed to bits,
its ink splattering graffiti on the black tarmac,
its body a smattering of yellow plastic pieces.
I am on all fours,
contemplating picking up the half-broken nib, when
'Familientradition' runs over the remains of my fountain pen’s gold nib.
Inhaling sharply, I get back up,
and stare at the marquee in neon.
Murphy’s Irish Pub.
Yeah, it’s the bloody Murphy’s Law.