Go to the neighboring Ukraine
where my old namesakes live,
where Russian shawls drape
their heads, hidden.
Rabid mice, scavenging
in dark overcoat pockets,
laden with small coins
& prescription receipts.
Marinas muttering
with frozen breath,
floating about public
bus exhaust fumes.
Broken bread under
one arm, finding the time
to hurry home
to warm their hands
by some fire
real or imagined...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem