Crossing the Lines
Tbilisi
I’m searching for a means
to cross the rusted railway lines
in downtrodden outskirts
of a distant city looking west.
New architecture spreads wings
but the pot-hole streets
are muddy and third world.
People emerge from dark interiors
of ancient tenement blocks,
I want to look inside,
climb stairs but better not.
I follow men who know a path
and reach the other side
through oil-slime, feral canines,
stalls creaking with vegetables.
In an ancient jukebox bar
locals eat and drink.
A pot of wine costs nothing.
