A frosty shaft invades the station, chilling scarfless necks.
A flush-cheeked whistler coughs, connects his shiny jacket, checks
his watch, a banjo-shouldering gypsy scans the schedule and scratches
his paintbrush chin as Krzysiek takes an oafish chance and snatches
a kiss off skintight-skirted cherry-lipsticked Katarzyna.
They’re fresh from advertising kitchens at the sports arena.
She jumps and shoots a cash-changed grimace of rejection, “Gosh! Cheeky
bastard!”, as she itches for the last train to Bydgoszcz.
Ksenia jerks her suitcase past some goulash-chewing surgeons,
skidding pushchairs and a splodge of crucifix-chained virgins
and dumps her rucksack in the slush, charged up with new adventures
to challenge her neurosis, new companions who’ll speak French as
joyously as she does, no more intellectual slouchers.
No more will she be mixing milkshakes or exchanging vouchers,
no more will she stack aspirin capsules, sweep a church or wash china
once she leaps wish-chasing off the last train to Bydgoszcz.
Przemysław attempts to judge a touchy situation.
Bolesław is just a friend. Is this infatuation?
The vodka shoves a scorching streamlet down his ice-chapped cheeks.
Should he raise objection now or fluctuate for weeks?
The engine chugs now into view, as if by a magician.
It hoots and shimmers in the dusk, switched onto its brisk mission.
Przemysław just shrugs and searches for his flask of borshch
as Bolesław scoffs colesław on the last train to Bydgoszcz.
