Walking through
A German street, the husky smell
Of beer and cigarettes and
Pommes, clinging to the wet air.
Low, thick bubbling
Of conversations
Stirring the sound,
Jumbled with the roar
Of a truck slowly going by,
Carefully winding through the
Small, crowded streets.

I see her
Waiting in the corner,
Underneath a huge yellow umbrella,
Which shades three other tables
As well, fingering
An ivory colored cup
Half filled with coffee.
The yellow table cloth
Is stained with a day's
Worth of sitters.
She sees me and smiles,
Waving at me so
I will see her too.

I sit and
Order "Ein caffe, bitte"
From the waiter.
She speaks
Rapidly, asking me questions
about the drive.
There is a man across
The street, in the piazza,
Selling bratwurst,
Long and thin, or
Plump and short,
In hard rolls.
Brochen.

The sky is grey,
Like it always is.
The air is wet,
The vague, musty smell of beer
Hangs in it,
Mingled with cigarette
Smoke, rising from the fingers
of
Almost all the sitters.
People talk in their thick,
Low toned language,
German.
I had forgotten,
That this is how
Frankfurt feels.