At the Middle School two driveways down the street,
Hollywood safari vans tote tipsy tourists and King of Pop-culture purists
to contemplate like jurists the Michael Jackson Auditorium, whose much-lauded eponym
was sleek and slim, and boyishly indiscreet.
At this school, Russian parents take parking spots and umbrage,
when their children start to bleat
about the Czech (or Slovak?) wreck teaching home ec with no respect for Moscow discotheques, who expects to check classwork bereft of facts about the colossal crime in Crimea carried out by the usual suspects.
To my American neighbors, it sounds like the indirect vivisection of Vladimir Putin’s next election. Dollars and cents, rubles and shekels.
Garbage cans moved. Emotions operatic. Blissful harmony, discordant static.
Who’s more entitled, the white men born between borders or the white men with connections to the Kremlin? No one’s starving. No one drives a Gremlin.
When the SUVs and minivans . . . → Read More: Poem: A Good Education