And we managed to save the table after all.
The port of call for every
lonely sailor of northern
and southern seas.
The level of services provided by the port kitchen
leaves much to be desired: three kinds of pasta
with sauce, a fish cutlet, cucumber salad,
but none of the sailors holds
it against me.
We can talk at the table.
Play. Read. Study maps.
Make minor repairs, for example,
sew torn sails. Today we’re reading.
“From the Diary of a Poznań Tutor.”
Tears well up in our eyes,
when sick Michaś bends under the weight
of the German books in his satchel.
“It’s just like me,” jokes one of the sailors.
So we managed to save the table after all.
On Sunday it is the hall of briefings,
a rat lurking under the desk.
From Monday to Friday it is the waiting room,
wind tossing a creased newspaper from corner to corner.
On Friday, the port again,
gulls circling above it, the sun reflected in the water.