The Little Inn

1 June 2013

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

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