George Such – Poetry

NO POLITE ESCAPE

Riding south toward the Loire Valley, my daughter Lyndsay and I gaze out the window at the vineyards and fields, hypnotized by the train’s wobble and rattle. On the seat across from us, an elderly woman lights up yet another cigarette, filling our small compartment with smoke.  And there’s no polite escape. We breathe it in, reminding me of a story my father once told me about his father, who came to America illegally from Romania, how four of them were stuffed below the deck of a small boat from Cuba, no space to move and just a small hole for air, how one of them had to have a smoke and the others had to suffer, the hunger for air, the pressure about to explode.
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