Late in the Platz

We stood in a platz at the end of the day
My son and I in high debate.
What ugly buildings, I complained,
And he complained of my complaint.
It all depends, was his retort.
Of course, he's right, but so am I:

The building in question had no soul,
Angle and pattern of grey on grey.
The deadening geometry of perfection
Repeating instrcution to an unwieldy universe:
There is no exception just right on right,
Wrong being other than ninety degree.

But who's to say there's wrong in rightness?
It's only beholding eyes that makes
What's in a soul or other judgments,
And that's not for me to say, he says.
The younger man pokes fun at his father,
Returning the older man's own past remark.

We've each been on both sides of the matter,
In taste there can be no argument.
But then we confront the outcome of others,
Unpleasing in aspect we decide on the spot.
Conjuring rules of good and commandment,
And summon the gods who confirm our lament.

The irony plays across his mind and mine,
By turns we recall each's own opposition;
Who's own offense is most offensive,
Or when which side was taken when.
Like other joists between us joined,
This one ends in the humilty of humor.

For the final winner is fine Augustiener,
A bierhalle named for the patron of Hippo.
The casks of ale so wonderously barreled,
In kind expectation of libations poured out
To further the arguments of old and new
Found among tables of happy participants.

The triumphant agreement for the lay architects
Is the juxtaposition of the country in question.
These hard angles of precision relenting
To the gartens and halles where the life is well lived.
Though daily sequestered by the affected efficient,
The heart of this people is as round as the keg.