Cossacks In The Mist
Terry O'Conner
I expected stern soldiers
full of propaganda at the airport,
but the Russians got in the way:
handsome young men with automatic weapons,
laughing at the drunk businessman
as he hugged and kissed them,
gently putting him down to sleep it off on a bench.
I expected the blank faces
of a monotone monster crowd,
rushing to get on that train to the South,
but the Russians got in the way:
arms waving, haggling with the porters,
"How could these three small cases cost 4000 ruples?
It's just a few small gifts for my family."
And over there, flitting through the crowd
like a bright bird through the dark forest,
a gypsy family, too proud to dress the same.
I expected Cossacks in the mist
while riding that midnight train to Samara,
but the Russians got in the way:
fat Sasha sharing his sweet raspberry tea
and showing me with his hands
the sizes of his family,
and Sergei the driver,
Dimitri the retired opera singer,
and Masha the nurse
telling me the future is in the hands of the children.
I expected to see Russians on my trip to the East,
but the people got in the way.
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