A Time to Write

A Time to Write

Writing my life away
in a cloudy day
on the el train,
taking a glimpse
every now and then

  at the haggard faces,
  the oddly-matched rooftops,
         overflowing dumpsters,
         smelly back alleys,
the other side of
                   Chicago’s skyline.

Writing my life away
                         in the nineteen nineties,
when the future
                      never seems
                      to become present,
and the present
                         becomes past
                         without a whisper.

Writing my life away
                          in a coffee shop,
                          till closing time,
                          somewhere in the big city,
and an old Cuban song
                          lingers in the air.

© Eytán Lasca, 2002

Departure Song

Departure Song

I left my home
              one morning
              towards the end
                            of May,
and I took a taxi
       and the bittersweet
                    tango music
                    from the radio
brushed upon the streets
                    on my way to the bus station.

There I was,
sitting in an old cafe,
killing time before departure,
       sipping coffee,
       nibbling on croissants...

and my mom
      just kept on smiling,
      maybe he’ll change his mind,
                    she probably thought
      maybe he’ll get cold feet,
                    she muttered to herself,
      maybe he’ll be back in four or five months,
      maybe things will improve around here...
                                                  and my son
                                                   will soon be back...

And I stepped
          upon the coach bus,
I was carrying not too much,
In a matter of
                 just hours
I was walking
                all alone,
In a city of ten million,
               North to South
               and East to West,
mesmerized
              by the sounds,
blending into
              the crowd,
browsing at
              the bookstores,
stopping for a beer
              every now and then.

Late at night I found
             some shelter,
             just a room where I collapsed,
and the window I left open,
            taking in the city lights,
and I knew
           that I was never,
           going back to my home town.

© Eytán Lasca-Szalit , 2002