Calling It Love, a poem by pd lyons

back in 1985 i spent a month in Hamburg. it was January and it was one of the coldest ever. this is a poem from then

Calling It Love

Black Sea, palm tree dreams,

recorded Springsteen’s Badlands,

philosophic gift to a lover

borrowed from your room mate,

when you lived on a street named for lanterns.

Wrapped in your long black coat,

cross the city underground,

through heavy draped doorways,

nuzzle into smoke, and hot grog.

timeless sailors, reluctant to approach,

as if they knew something steel hidden in your pocket.

The last time you were here –

making cigarettes for a lover

borrowed from your room mate.

conversation a blur. Cinema forgotten,

unburdened in a room above the kiosk.

all sense of betrayal excused by adventure…

Next morning, walking home

dry steel footsteps echo,

as even you found yourself

believing in what you knew was not

and calling it love.

for cordula


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