TAKING RUSSIAN LEAVE
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One takes a seat. One does not speak.
The heating pipes only blubber and
detonate. It’s dark. At your empty hand
one fixedly stares. A guess, oblique,
tells that the stupid soul’s on strike
when what is brewing is an end,
which cold stares on the skin portend.
Ears roar. Blood pressure hits a peak.
One waits and waits. All right, then, says
the silent suitcase. Well you know
that this long minute can’t recur.
Get up, before the dawn’s first rays,
and do what you are prompted to
before the room is bare.
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