A Journey North
Trees are everywhere.
Gardens, wet grass, dew,
Weeds to pull, how I hate plants.
I am seated on an express train,
I see a group of East Indians in the rows seats laughing.
We make a stop near a café,
I am hungry.
The ash from the Indian’s cigarette-
Goodness almost went into my eyes.
It’s early September, and
I can’t comprehend the Russian language.
Or why anybody would want to take themselves to church on a Sunday?