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Baby hour. Hour of cake:
platters the size of XL pizzi –
fourteen, and some, per day.

Four fathers enter, all with child.
Prams and prams and strollers collide.
Finally the mothers too, arrive.

Pashing couple, eating face,
talking close like jungle vines,
eyes like searchlights, moistening haste.

On the couch (leathery, brown),
four legs organic, animal-twined.
He drinks O-saft, she, wine.

Clear sky out beyond the ties
(that serve as curtains, neck-of-day) while
handsome-borings drink Milchkaffee.

 Dissuaded from greed, chubby boy
saves unscrupulously for newer wheels.
Chaperone returns cents slyly gained.

Soup with dill, and two chunks bread.
Sour tea cake, rhubarb-laced.
Entkoffiniert coffee, strewn with schoko-zimt.

You can spend three hours, four perhaps.
The tables all big and timber enough.
Only fifteen – or so –  of the U-bahn’s stops.

Across the park, with green-footed man.
Bronze man, and then some others, warm.
From stormy morning, it’s turned blue-grand.

Walk north from Alex.
Walk north,
then turn.