What Travelling Back Feels Like

Two hours every year.
In twelve years, we'll have spent
a full day together.
So those last 5 minutes of the two hours -
we make full use of them.
At the crossing, waiting for the green light,
I turn and across the commotion of people's heads,
I see them, tiny and already far.
I lift both arms, and so does she.
I wave with one in broad strokes
and she does too. I jump, and lean,
and balance on one leg, she repeats,
and we don't have to speak to know
what we've said. Then the light is green,
and I walk away into another year.

**********************************

In the elevator at the Munich Airport
we look at each other curiously.
I ask the girl whom I recognize
from the Belgrade plane in Serbian;
"Will you make it for the next one?"
"I think so, it's the Chicago flight
in half an hour."
"I"m going to Montreal," I volunteer,
and now we all know we speak
the same language. The chubby guy
on the left says he's on his way
to Chicago too, and the guy to the right
says with a smile, "And I'm off to San Francisco.
But it's all at the same place, isn't it?"
The elevator door opens, and we spill
into three different directions,
without another word.

***********************************

When I enter my apartment, the air is stuffy
and smells of a month's absence.
I kick my shoes off, wheel the suitcase
out of the way, and check my voice mail.
In the last message, an old woman's voice
says with indignation, "Allô......
Y a-t-il quelqu'un????" I stand with the receiver
in my hand, listen to the crackling
on the other side, and wonder if I'm there.