Walking poem

The red-white barrier never opens for pedestrians, only for cars and theoretically for bikes,

usually not, or last minute: the moment you are just about to crash into it, the pole suddenly rises, nearly hitting your head, beep, beep, beep

turning right at the corner, my old Esprit trainers move in unison with the invisible student rhythm,

before lesson, right in time/ too late/way too late, so late, hurrying is not longer necessary

after lesson, shopping / laundry/work/societies/meeting friends/going out-

I pass a fragile roof (Danger!)

and take a free pen from the bright yellow jacket/weskit, CODE, 99 a week

Fletcher building on the right side, I've never been in there

the pavement looks like a collage of wrapping paper, cigarettes, something that must have been chewing gum a long time ago and has slowly aggregated with the asphalt surface, colourful flyers (CODE, 99 per week) as eye catchers-

'You can't make it spotless'

'See you tonight then.'

'Who cleans that window? How do they do it?'

'...and then I just left him on the dance floor'

Mansion Court comes in sight, with the golden Emblem on top of it and a massive Penis in the window on the third floor,

the wind is blowing in my face, viciously reminding me of the two remaining months until spring,

I nearly lose my hat,

on the right side, it used to be the Interlude,

Cocktails and sticky floor at night time,

in the day, it was just a rundown building, covered by iron railings,

now it's never night time there

I'm nearly on the bridge now, hands in my pockets, forgot my gloves

a construction rail divides the sight on the canal into squares-

'Why is it here?'

'Look, the dead pidgeon.'

©K.M.Kalinowski

'I'm so tired.'

Muddy brown water

rippling in the wind, a duck

tries to swim against the stream, failing

swans, water-skiing

some are taking off, flying over my head,

like Nils Holgersson

The smell of salt

is missing.