Like Berlin Itself

Listening to David Bowie (Station to Station) 
bleak Thin White Duke,
glamorous wrecked, like Berlin itself
and the rain comes down,
and gin drains the bottle
all by by itself

I’m by myself

authored by, I mean,
like you are you see,

see?

See how the paragraphs mount up,
becoming unplanned chapters,
the narrative arch no more visible
than the earth's curve from a church spire.

Stand back and observe your work,
read it quietly to old ladies on the bus,

mumble it from under an umbrella
at the adamant red of a traffic light

and in the background hiss of diesel engines
tearing up the puddles,
scattering their bits like a botched paper chain
on your jeans

you will hear an echo, faint at first;

the noise of your life
strong with beauty, surprised of purpose
having in it as it does, all the raw material of art,
though heavy here and there with history
like Berlin itself.