ÉMIGRÉ

Nicholas Buzanski

The ring of wine cuts into bare wood
                            and cuts into the paper           
              causing it to tear-
              smearing the soft letters
from an alphabet that waits
like you for your train.

The station overtakes you
              on that mahogany bench,
engulfed in enormous space,
buzzing with ticket machines,
                           glowing green and blue ,
                           making you pale and slight
as you nibble nervously at your fingernails
and wait for travel.

A view through dirty windows
              rushing across towns
                           and beside diminished fields
to home-
where you sulk.

Then
a hope for return,
             the security of sheets
             and two hands tucked around your middle.

So you lay, sullen and sighing,
                          hating the wall's white paint,
                                                     dreaming of flight