Chernobyl
Over a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka
And slices of kalbasa…. and cold breeze
Of first September, you proudly spoke to me
Of Lenin; we sat beneath the apple tree.
I disagreed not, with your thoughts
Neither, I agreed. It’s just I had no time
To argue, nor speak about him right now,
For my mind was fixated. A green apple
Teasingly, hanging above our heads;
Come on, discussions…later, I childishly beg
As I kept lusting for the sweet juice of temptation;
Tempted I was, it took me only one jump, for
The fruit of my fleeting desire;
Still, you refused to stop, talking
About the great proletariat, who cares?
Me? Hmm, nope, this green apple’s juicier
Than what you’re telling; I wiped the thin dust off
With my long-back shirt. Then, I opened my mouth
To bite it; But, a passing, scraggy Babushka yelled:
“If you eat that apple, my son, you will die!”
Without asking her why? I threw it.
Then, my friend Ruslanchik said:
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,
We’re only 100 km away from our black history!”
Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago | Year Posted 2007
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