Portraits

Ivan Zahariev Zidarov.

Living alone.
Going to market alone.
Cooking for himself alone.
Towards evening, only sometimes,

with a friend over a game of chess
and cold green tea,
killing time.

Slightly short-sighted — normal.
Teetotaller.
Adhesions on the lungs.
Crooked gait.
Unhurried.

Has a television.
No illusions.
Dreams rarely.
Goes on foot.
Eats sparingly.

Afraid of women
who stay on
longer than two days.

Dreams — won’t say.
Wishes for a good salary.
And no idea
how to get one.
Or what he needs it for.

White ceilings in the living room.
A dirty chest of drawers and a vase.
A keepsake from his mother.
And the better times,
which are always “years ago”.

Eleven telephone
numbers in the little notebook,
of which he dials two.

Pleasant to talk to,
no needless drama in the voice
or pointless comparisons.
With a smile, but no humour.

Somewhat reserved,
somewhat needlessly
affable.

With a love of detail
and care for his health,
which he is saving for better days.
54 years of it now.