at the old writing desk

I sit and write for hours

letters to old friends

applications for various projects

trial reports on war criminals
it is understandable why she trusted him

he took her suitcase and ran

but he looked honest standing by the train
a photograph of this theft

can be found at the bottom of the centre drawer

under a stack of paper

at least I think it’s his picture

Grandma never talked a lot about her past
Wislawa Szymborska mentions this incident

in her poem The Railroad Station

she writes ‘a suitcase disappeared / not mine’

but maybe it was my grandmother’s
the photograph is blurry

but you can make out the features well enough

no smile to be seen

like a documentary photo or official document

or maybe it’s not him at all