Central Station
What drove them to come here, among the tables
of the station’s chrome and coarse design
with its foreign lexis (“latte”, “donat”, “mocha”)
and apparent comfort? What important holiday –
granddaughter’s first communion, godson’s wedding? –
drew them from their apartment by bob and cap,
tossed them from one ticket office to the next
and had their green valise of ordinary things
rumble across the Central Station’s slabs?
He, with an elegance
a trifle lower class, she in her “facial shoes”,
he carrying her golden-patterned cream handbag,
she telling him: “Staś , you’d prefer…” – a loud shout interrupts –
“…wouldn’t you? Take this chocolate, then.” What culture
did create her antediluvian hairdo, his neckerchief, her
unfashionable jacket? They’re like a pair of tritons
that some capricious current has washed up on the coast
of cast-out material, an heraldic relief you find, surprised,
between the logos of Reserved and Empik.
translated by Wojciech Maslarz
first published by New Europe Writers
