Józef Dywan

1861 Lubnia - 1893 Winona

I never asked to move to this stupid country.
Should have run for the hills instead
With dear old Uncle Nerusz, the tramp.
He would have taught me the trade:
How to sleep in haystacks, to beg my daily bread,
To flirt with horse-faced milk maids
To work only for piwo and wodka
Or maybe an ancient harbor coat
To keep me warm as I slept in some stranger's barn.
I could die, old and laughed at, and yet
Remembered fondly in the village
Where I was born and should have been raised.
Instead here I lie, in this stupid country where
My poor old dad croaked from overwork
Aged fifty-eight. Making me, of all people
The man of the house.
"Go to work," poor Mother screeched at me.. "Get a job!"
A job? Like the job that killed poor old Dad?
I ran for the hills. Too late.
I was hauled back to Winona as a vagrant.

So I gave myself a job:
To drink myself to death as soon as possible.
I didn't mean to put on such a show, though,
On my way out. Trust Mother to make a tragedy
Of everything she touches. Let the idiots of Winona
Gawk and chatter as they like about my passing.
This stupid country is no place for tramps like us,
Dear old Uncle Nerusz.

123 Mankato Avenue