On the Way Home, Lviv

By Matthew Parish

Sunday 8 November 2026

He said it was his bar. That seemed to make

The threats of killing me a point of taste:

The sort of thing a decent man would take

In silence, letting nothing go to waste.

My fault was mentioning them. His uniform

Caught on the table as he drew up near.

Outside, November practised being a storm.

Inside, he worked at making himself clear.

He named the fronts he’d served on, one by one,

And paused for what each name should make me feel;

Then spoke of men he’d murdered with his gun,

His thumb revolving on the bottle’s seal.

Perhaps he had. The places were quite real,

And men were dying there while we sat here.

But nothing in that settled how to feel

About his little promises of fear.

Later, some girls outside another place

Found something in me worth a shouted joke.

I walked away. The heat stayed in my face.

A tram went past. Behind it, someone spoke.

Halfway towards home I stopped. The quiet street

Had left their voices room inside my head.

I turned, went back, and heard my own voice meet

Their laughter with the things I should have said.

No triumph followed. Only winter air,

A taxi waiting, someone looking bored.

I’d wanted them to know I wouldn’t scare.

I’d given them some minutes more. They roared.

Yet this was not the city. Further on

A woman helped an old man board a tram;

A bakery had left its small light on.

There must be better measures of a town

Than those who claim its pavements after drink:

Young thugs, their little court, the borrowed migh

tOf criminals who cannot bear to think

A stranger need not grant them that much right.

I walked home hoping—and believed it too—

Their rule would end; the country would outgrow

These petty men, with better things to do.

Some windows shone above the street below.