I’ve given up the coffee and the clatter,
The newspapers on poles, the measured chatter,
Where one receives, upon discreet request,
A pen and writing paper with a crest.
Instead, a terra cotta roof and cypress
With olives, vineyards, colonnades, and nooks,
A hearth, a garden, study rich with books
A Tuscan simulacrum this suffices.
Some say an exiled literature thrives,
Released from home constraints. Some say it dies,
Cut off from roots and readers. For myself,
I am content to read my unread shelf
Of prose, or to re-read my favorite verse
Awaiting the arrival of my hearse.
Andrew Sorokowski was born in Connecticut to Ukrainian refugee parents and grew up in San Francisco. He has worked in law, publishing, academia, and government as a researcher, writer, editor, and lecturer.
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