C. Napolitano

isaidwut

I am Berlin

To whom it may concern,

I'm sad to say, I do not know who I am anymore. After a mere five weeks, questions I once had the answers to now keep me awake while I lay in bed, sweating in a cold panic.  Questions like

Where is home back home?  Does Wynwood still exist? 

What is sushi? Can you eat it raw? 

How many feets are in a meter? Why aren’t inches called toes?

I fear I am too far gone, slathering exuberant amounts of mayo on everything. Ketchup with fries (pommes?) seems disgusting. Football is football and football isn't football. Which one has feet and a ball? Both. God help me. 

As a goodbye, I leave you with this poem. Take it and cherish it, as it may be the last you hear from me before I marry this schnitzel.

 

Late to My Dinner Reservation                                         By Christian Napolitano

 

There is no bigger sin

than being late in Berlin.

 

The restaurant door locks,

the hostess grins.

 

“The U-bahn was late! It’s just two past eight!!”

 

Now I’m stuck in the rain 

wet.

 

This is good beer.

I feel nein pain.