A STREET OF OTHER DAYS

Mornings, afternoons,

I cut through this street,

past drab, neglected Russian buildings,

dingy trees, here and there a beauty shop,

snack bars. Flashy signs, business slow,

a tattered magazine no one reads.

Glories gone amid the shifting light,

the changing scenes, its miseries accrued.

If you like, those pensioners can spin a tale—

White Russian ladies, exiles,

indigent musicians.

Feeble now, the old hunch in late autumn sunlight,

lulled with this street, solitary,

mute stones beneath a spell.