I see your figure seated on the edge of my bed in that century old Berlin bedroom in that ancient and violent city…shadowing up against those floor to ceiling windows. I look out through the pane of glass which opens out onto the cobblestone street below…Reichenberger Strasse where jackboots marched decades earlier; this thieving city.
You are an unwelcome guest, after I welcomed you; and yet now you have made yourself at home; sitting too close, far too close to my bowl of scattered, unworn jewelry. As I watch the sinking tired orange rays settle and widen out over the edge of the building across the way…I know it’s gone. It’s all gone. I know it is gone…as I lean up against that ragged door jamb, toes curled in anger…into that old and dusty carpet.
I have no proof, save that which would emerge with sheer physical force and I can not do that.
I see you and you see me and we both know that we both know that you have stolen from me. You have stolen from me. And…I should, I should , and I really should confront you, but I am raised in a certain way and as I stare blatant theft in the face…polite society does not allow me to wring your bloody neck.
And…my rings are gone. That is that then. And I lean up against that old door jamb in that ancient city…
690 Saint Paul 