TIRED NOW AND
COLD OF BEING
The red light blinks beyond the corner, edging
forces flowing to a stop. Reflections merge on
a pavement where only the mourners who walk
ever know. There's nothing left in the human arm.
The reach it was once tried has been proved too far.
I am pretty sure that scientists are writing all this
down, and that as soon as the sun goes down and
the plows come out, the long-night crawl will begin.
No dissidents at all, everyone in favor of the sweep.
'That's how the crowds cheered along St. Petersburg's
street so long ago,' someone says. I wasn't sure at all
what he meant - he wasn't that elderly, yet could he
mean Florida instead of Russia?
The story of History it only what's written in books.
The losers are dead and they tell no tales. The red
light, I realize again, is blinking as on some Moscow
street itself, where the peering gaze of Authority
sizes everything up while the guidebooks laugh.
'This is a land without any second chances.' Ah!
Now I knew what he's driving at. But I am
tired now - and cold of being - as well.