Tanja Dückers


I walk out of a post-office in Paulsborner Straße,
it's two after six.
We meet here again on the playground
below the red slide, no one is around.
Just a yellow shovel in the drizzle.
I don't know how old you are,
you don't know how old I am.
We fuck in silence.
Just the noises in the streets from the
people driving home
somewhere lost in our ears.
I neither feel lonesome nor twosome,
we just move, absent-minded,
not passionate, not cold.
We lie still for a while,
we know, we meet tomorrow here again.
You need to go home,
your parents, homework, and dinner.
It starts to rain harder,
you put your cap on, I put
the collar of my jacket up.
We don't look at the hollows we made
with our bodies in the sand.
It is not important to mention
it is full moon.
We walk through the little swinging red-and-green door,
I lift my hand, there you go.