BIG, WET MONDAY
BIG, WET MONDAY
(a Ukrainian closes his abstinence)
As it always blows and it always will blow
wind blows on this Lent’s-end weekend.
In drizzle of Easter after-morning
through lace curtains comes low gray light
to feast-remains in saucers spread:
soiled napkins, smudged shot glasses,
dry cake, salads of mayonnaise-congealed,
and from night out upon table, cured meats hard
and glassy. With feet slipped into velour house shoes,
he gets up and coughs. With thickened fingers rapt,
he cups tea while in house-robe of terrycloth his wife
stirs drippings to be dribbled over morning gruel.
Terry cloth printed with exotic birds.
Gruel overcooked, steaming and soft.
Today there is no work, no stacking milksack-
packed crates, no clipboards, no hand shakes.
Today is his day off. Today is one day after
Lent’s end.
Down steps of poor concrete: sagging graveled lower lips.
Onto courtyard of tamped debris: Doric playground.
Under empty clothesline he deigns, eyeing his
tooled shoes for mud-scuff. On corner he waits
while drizzle quills leather of his thigh length jacket.
Thick fingers stuffed deep into fleeced-lined pockets.
Turkish-spun sweater with zipper tugged to chin. He fingers
his keys.
Suddenly steady shudders the tramvai,
Wires slack-slung above, sparks shake to street.
One of six he sits in booming streetcar,
early this Easter after-morning. Out of
Soviet suburb’s nine story housing blocks, around
dusty and grown-over park smiling toothy in
brittle, futurist monuments, with din of rattles,
he rides and rickets up to cobbled Stop. Vokzal,
ploshka, Hotel Ternopil.
His fair is paid; his feet at curb edge stand.
At red signal he hesitates, looks left, feels drizzle
tickle nose, looks right, sees red still, forward extends
leg to cross.
With sliding doors are closed shops. Today is one
day after Lent’s end. Behind him bustles train station:
cabs, for-rent cell phones, bread, leavers tonight for
work tomorrow.
Without silk wrapped legs and cross to cardboard,
from her usual glower is absent woman beggar.
In secondhand liquor boxes stand filed magazines,
under kiosk counters safe. To him are windows of shack
looking as eyes: empty, damp, blank-watching earli-
ness empty of concrete ploshka’s tiers, his progress.
In drizzle of Easter after-morning, doors of tele-
communications building locked lean. and by balding attendant,
this the day after Lent’s-end, the doors of tele
communications building are unlocked. By attendant
he is recognized, by attendant he is acknowledged:
for extension of his arm to handle, door is held
long enough.
Both are now inside of main floor’s creaking,
among empty counters and glass partitions, alone.
Through thin aluminum door pass both
to thin aluminum central hold lined
with shabby desks and shabby computers, grimey key-
boards, dust-furred moniters. The attendent attends. He
from corner post drags chair, on chair-back hangs wet,
leather coat. He pulls creases of pants, sits, thickened fingers
folded. Waiting.
Soon pops screen, soon whirls drive.
Soon manages modem, in algorithm.
As always thickened-fingers-folded he waits.
Creases pulled, half smiling, forward facing
On this, the day after Lent’s end.
posted by Curtis Jensen @ 00:51
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