Moscow Calling - Poem by Robin Bennett
I never understood why Moscow called
out to me. Why do they offer that I
needed to have? Certainly wasn't the
vodka. America has perfected their
finest import, if you ask me.
Lord knows it's not their fashion sense.
I imagine I'd look ridiculous with a
dead squirrel on my head for warmth.
Seems the food was only good
for packing on body fat to last the
brutal Russian winters. Still, she
called to me.
Once my ballet career died, I dreamt
of seeing the Bolshoi Ballet. Walking
in a frozen Red Square surrounded by
falling paper lace cut outs falling from
the foreign skies. My lungs bursting with
the pain of the frozen tundra, yet my
heart still skipped a beat as I waited for
beauty and brilliance.
Only in my fantasies have I seen the
spotlight shine on perfection. That
Russian entry stamp still eludes my
passport for now.
Until the day I live my fantasy, I save a page
in my passport and try to remember the
glow of a fading spotlight.
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