In which I think of every elderly Slav I've ever known
Somewhere in America,
an old Slav wakes up,
scratches his ass,
farts despondently,
and remembers the days when he slept in the hallway
with a suitcase
because he thought they would come
after him for making samizdat.
He feeds the cat -
proper cat food, not table scraps -
and sits with his pile of completely legal books,
about gay love,
and religion,
and every human experience from top to bottom.
And I, a scribbler,
American by birth
I've got nothing to say
except for the fact that
I love every Ukrainian who scratches his ass
when he gets up in the morning.