Help Yourself to Some Cherries

Under the dome of gray sky,

in humid air you could hardly breathe,

we drank five cups of coffee,

the old Croat

draped in a dirty raincoat,

with a face like a dried apple

and kind blue eyes.

About Bosnia,

about heat,

about fear and a tape recorder,

about town of Turbe,

about a corpse in an olive green jumpsuit—

but my stories do not interest him.

“The last war

was a drunken rumble of

rednecks in a backwoods café!”

Three years he spent in hell, back and forth—

searching for the way out,

one of Tito’s men,

tossed in a mountain valley dice cup

of the Devil,

with only a sliver of hope . . .

He waved his hand—

Help yourself to some cherries!

The air became thick as coffee grounds.

From the leaves above me,

a heavy berry, a drop of blood, fell down.

A lead colored cloud, like

a giant squid, hung over Frushka mountain.

Thunder . . .

Suddenly the old man perked up:

We have on the same sneakers!

2008.