Poetry by Rushika Wick
There are worse situations to be in
than at a coffee bar, wasting time
in an airport beyond the fields
falling in love with the notion of home;
imperfections of dead flowers,
cold water in the shower system,
a collection of salvaged rubber bands –
lavender and blue, sitting in the kitchen,
waiting for their moment of utility.
Away was what we dreamed of –
staggering about after dark
screwing the Iliad up against the wall,
we left – halflings seeking Ouzo
to locate ourselves in this salt Acropolis,
wrapping Midas fleece about our minds,
eating raw honey and blinded by art
but all the while, a strange longing
building in the basement of the soul,
immured graffiti messages in
squatted ateliers, punctured
by the burning of passports,
a longing for useless rubber bands
and a beautiful broken chair
to sit on at the days end.