Turning his back now
and through the turnstile, under x-ray arches
and a uniformed pat down,
under a white tunnel and spotless linoleum
flooring and after a ripped ticket and hidden
smile and through another tunnel with a
cold breeze trickling through and a
plastic smell seeping in, he steps one and then
two feet onboard, ready to take-off, back
to New Jersey, back to the only place he has
left (a mother's home), away from a new wife,
now divorcee, and new diamond ring, and away
from St. Petersburg and away from
the Neva River and away from the Baltic Sea and
his blonde accountant wife and from
their flat on the river on the fourth
floor leaving the keen walls,
aware of his shouting and her swelled bruises.
His visa was expired anyway.