Andrey Gritsman
Cup of Tea
In the end he was waiting for her
to come back.
So everything would be
laid out as usual:
tomatoes sliced thinly,
salt, pepper.
Their life was covered with bruises, scars.
In the window the other side
barely visible across the river.
He is waiting for his wife.
If there is one.
There is river and a boat
and his life as it was:
no prison, no war,
just wanderings of an alien.
He is waiting. He knows—
she is somewhere nearer,
her light steps…
She’d wipe sweat from his forehead,
fix cup of tea.
He is not asking for much now,
too late…
All he is asking for—a cup of tea.
Villa Borghese
As you leave the place,
leaves fall down;
sundown lingers,
and then it is gone.
The place stays still
as time passes,
unnoticed by anyone
but you.
Then someone else comes,
looks at the sunset,
drops a cigarette stub
into dry foliage,
a paper napkin, a note
on someone’s card.
Then he goes too,
on his way around the circle.
You remember that
bittersweet, warm smell
of magnolias, maple,
the rustle of the cracked fountain.
Late sun touches
the statue with its disfigured,
unrecognizable face.
You are calm and happy
for the moment.
The salvation is that
you could not even know:
You were not the only one there.
