HILARY ELFICK

In transit

 

I’ve been checked; strapped myself in,
and organised my tightly jumbled bag,
my Robert Nye, Sudoku book, the Scrabble.
France came before the trolley bearing gin,

and the man who overflows the aisle seat
is folding and refolding Sporting Life
and as I read the inside pages of The Times
I can smell his socks and now his armpits

and guess that Tony Blair will never last the year.
A bearded man strolls past us, in no haste,
and it’s nine-eleven again, so there’s that angst
as I look at those around me and I wonder.

Then turning from this brief and City Guide,
just as the windows show a darkening blue,
I scour obituaries for something else to do,
and see tucked in the list of those who’ve died

the stubble that first tickled and then drew
a line of itchy scratches on my face,
that corner with the spill of oil, the place
behind the library, back in ’62.

Roxana-Monica Mîndrican

Hilary Elfick
 

In tranzit

Am verificat, am strans, si m-am imbarcat!
geanta-mi ticsita cu lucruri de-a valma,
volumul de Robert Nye, Sudoku, jocul de Scrable.
Franta a sosit in fata caruciorului incarcat cu gin,

barbatul care se revarsa pe scaunul din margine
Impatureste si despatureste, Stirile Sportive
citind din « The Times » simt
cum ii miros ciorapii si subratul

cred ca Tony Blair nu va face fata acestui an.
Un barbos se plimba linistit in spatele nostru,
e iarasi unsprezece si noua minute, nelinistea
ce ma cuprinde privind in jurul meu intrebator.

Apoi revenind din acest Ghid al Orasului.
in clipa in care ferestrele se intuneca,
rasfoiesc necrologul, ca sa fac altceva
si vad inghesuita acolo lista celor care au decedat.

Barba care la inceput ma gadila si apoi
mi-a brazdat fata cu o serie de zgarieturi,
coltul ala cu pata de ulei
din spatele bibliotecii, din ’62.