Outside, I approached the car.
Inside, he watched carefully.
Slowly, he wound the window down.
I could hear Nautilus Pompilius playing,
one track transitioned into another,
a homemade cassette.
I smiled inwardly.
I knew we would have something to talk about.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
In-flight socks no longer provided,
no matter,
nation remains standing, divided.
The flight attendant looks at me askance.
He/she moves on.
I sit and stew,
sardine can.
…
In-flight socks.
I still have a pair from the ’90s,
a present from my grandparents.
While Yeltsin was snapping bra-straps,
they were jetting back and forth
and I was at home with a broken arm.
Happy Birthday, Manda.
Or, something like that.
In any case…
Something of a novelty.
Both.
Though they are gone,
the synthetic socks live on.
…
Sometimes it is enough
to see one end of a rainbow,
unexpected,
even a mere glimpse
on the horizon.
…
How long has it been?
…
How long has it been?
Hope?
An end to the acid rain?
…
