The Russian Bride Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

He had, at last decided
that she would have to go,
his Russian bride, the trophy
who had willingly become
his bride, you should have seen
the envy, he had been the king.
The day the card arrived, so green,
permission to remain forever
in the land of greatest freedom
she'd packed her single bag
and left, at dawn, to seek her liberty.
He'd been awake and trapped
her on the steps to the garage,
quickly his necktie snuffed her life.
They never missed her anywhere,
no friends or family at home,
no one to cry, or call her name.