Homesickness

Vasili, the new Lithuanian boy, smokes on his veranda.
Cigarette aroma, redolent of carefree Summers-past before health scares
and sensible years kicked in, drifts through my open door,
hangs in the cool dimness of my hallway like nostalgic incense.
Vasili screws up his face in the stripy sun, stabs the dog-end out on his beer can.
He checks his phone, but there are no calls. Vasili throws his hood over his head
It hides his face, but the dejected slide to sit hunched on the decking
indicates his habitual sadness has not lifted despite last night’s party in the house.
The railings cast shadows over his body, build a cage around him.
An exile who pines for the birchwoods and lakes, he anticipates
Sunday voices from home, tests the signal, battery and ringtone. Satisfied
there is no fault, he picks embedded splinters and grit from the soles of his bare feet.