I get up in the morning and the world looks like Heathrow, Orly, or O’Hare.
On the left a jackdaw full of secrets, at the bottom two sparrows, just like that,
swifts everywhere, in flocks, like the fanatical guards
of some unyielding character. An airport named after Lech Wałęsa,
Ławica, or Okęcie. A pigeon with a filled goiter,
limping, innocent. A starling with a yellow load in its beak, a smuggler,
with its mimicking knack for languages. Tempelhof, Schönefeld,
Leipzig/Halle. The sun reflects off the white basketball backboards
and returns to the game of being, I was never good at that,
but times are changing. If I were a flight controller,
I’d walk around in a white shirt and give the sense of security
to the young women at the bar, after hours, of course,
which also fly by, casting a short shadow on the bays
of coffee from the duty-free shop. I’d stand in front of a panoramic
window and think about how little today depends on the talent and passion
of a single man. A lighthouse keeper, unfortunately,
but with views of the future.
A request for overtime
lies in the bottom drawer, under our vacation photo.
Rejected for now, but duly noted, I think, that I’m ready.
Translated by Piotr Florczyk and Bori Dralyuk