expat in the east | poem

poetry

I was living in a one bed apartment in a once commie town, eastern Europe

it had an orange sofa with bouncy springs, octagon shaped clock and iron post bed.

after having nowhere to live for several months, I was delighted

by the simplicity of sparse and functional spaces, no western frills.  

the flat was in a town that looked like all the other towns I would find

throughout a valley of green and yellow, factories and high rises.

I lived there for one year, alone. by day, I taught English at local businesses, a school.

at night I drank among the lifers bedded in or the young, looking for a way out.

I never found out what the local farmers I would see in the pub dressed in overalls

check shirts and boots, covered in dirt and oil, thirsty for golden jars of beer

grew in the fields above the valley. those men—and some women

they had fists like cannonballs and the frame of a weightlifter, bloated bellies.

anyway, the high-rise apartments, they were stained grey and motionless

the windowless pubs could be spotted by a lone neon light at night.

small churches had a cross on top and were visited by the elderly and their daughters.

shacks found among the woodland had rusting metal for garden ornaments

a dog chained to pole. random black patches of grass were a common feature.

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