(parts I and II of IV)
of the METRO, Moscow's underground transit.
This one, packed like a sardine, dozed off
a moment and failed to get off at his stop.
He missed his own station, losing precious time.
Less time for sleeping and less time to escape.
Nightly: drifting away into dreamlands, where
office deadlines don't wait in ambush, where
niggardly salaries are paid on time in dollars
and businesses don't "disappear" overnight.
This sardine has a name, but call him "Poet".
Surrounded by his poem, "NO LIFE". Zig-zagging
to avoid instant rivers of gray rain, spreading
mud ponds and scattered chunks of sidewalk.
II Past public drunks, passing out in their
own piss pools. And the beggar hordes,
from laughable amateurs to heart-breakers.
And prostitutes, old as dirt to pre-menstrual.
Street kids and street toughs. Chic puppy
sellers and wild packs of abandoned dogs.
Vendors of fresh flowers and produce.
And commuters, darting back and forth
between snarled traffic and raging drivers,
mostly they are young and fleet of foot.
But the old ones, still the faceless masses,
shuffle slowly now, mumbling and praying
to make it across the street in one piece and
to make a 1900 ruble pension last a month.