The train rattled on its long rails,
slow and erratic, not unlike history,
into banks of fog that obscured the view.
I shared my compartment with a giant,
I think of Estonian origin, with a friendly
brown mustache and fat but dainty hands
that tipped vials of vodka into cups for us,
as he talked and talked, in German
or Russian—I caught every tenth word—
about his bountiful business in automobiles.
He bought wrecked BMWs in the west,
then sold them to his countrymen. Any wrong
could be made right by his mechanic,
who was an angel of God. Did I believe
in God, he asked? And what of the euro?
Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls?
Ernest Hemingway, Old Man and Sea?
I did, I did believe, and understood that man
down to his jolly soul. We drank—
to euros, to dollars, to Mercedes Benz.
Our train sped on, the dense fog lifted,
beds of nettles waved us westward.
The sun, as audacious as any lie ever told,
set fire to Poland’s paper sky, while
my portly Estonian oracle revealed
the secrets of love in his mother tongue.
Warsaw soon swallowed us whole.
Oh, I didn’t want us to leave
that boozy fantasy of camaraderie,
but he rose from his seat with a sigh
and in sensible English said good-bye.