by RAIMUND WONG

Wilkommen

Sit in the plush arms of a sofa in Dachau

A candle breathes wisps of blue-grey into the morning in Dachau

Tardy German versions of yank-pop on the perpetual stereo in Dachau

You’ve had a lovely breakfast in Dachau

Do they call them ‘cupola,’ spires that rise from an older culture to a new-day view of the hills, above the tram-lines and writhing miles of good folk busy with life in Dachau

A hotel tells for six corners of the earth the time, from off its cream-lacuered, fine-angled and immaculate walls in Dachau

Write a little poem, why not, in Dachau

Somehow, the same girl who worked at the bar last night is here, on shift, at the hotel Centrale, slim in a similar trim uniform, all black in Dachau

Scratchy flower designs on a bi-lingual blackboard are greeting one and all, proclaiming the pleasure of a deep wish to welcome, to serve and to please, indiscriminately in Dachau