Home in Transit
I know the time of every train that comes in here says Josip,
the 10.30 from Belgrade, the 12.05 to Budapest...
He sits beside me on the bench -
thick greying hair, worn leather jacket
and a smile of welcome.
Drawn to this energy of transit,
these arrivals and departures,
his smile of greeting warms,
just like this spring sunlight
that drifts on the still air
on the station platform at Zagreb.
The map he draws for me is miniature
as if he isn't used to claiming space.
In Trieste, he begins – and pauses -
this hotel is friendly, inexpensive -
tell them Josip recommended it to you,
I stayed there with a Czech lady -
two years ago, or maybe three -
I ask him if he lives in Zagreb.
I come from Bosnia he says.
If I can find work then I live somewhere.
They let me stay here -
he gestures along the platform
and my eye falls on the empty train track
stretching in the morning sun,
and a small shack, tin roof, patched-up boards
with plastic stretched across the gaps.
He hands me the tiny map
as the Trieste train approaches.
Remember, he says – the Hotel Alabarda,
tell them Josip sent you.
Remember - you live only once,
take the good things that life offers you,
you know?
He puts my rucksack on the train for me,
then smiles and waves goodbye.
