Yuri. Round face. Cropped black hair.
Red nose. He roars, “What can I do?
Vodka naidu!” The tumblers drip.
“Drink, Alfie! To the last man who
can save the West! To Donald Trump!”
It tastes like own-brand aftershave
drained through a sock, but Yuri beams,
“We drink and piss on Yeltsin’s grave!”
Ruta. High heels. Long blonde hair.
Red nails. She sighs, “What can I do?”
“Vodka naidu?” is my suggestion.
“No.” She shakes her head. “We’re through.
It’s over.” Grasping for the wall,
I blunder, “What a huge surprise,
he’s gayer than a sculptor’s friend!”
She smiles, “I know. I like such guys.”
Yuri. Slumped on table leg.
Half-shouting. Wipes away a tear.
“Ruta, she is like a sister.
I tell you, if I ever hear
about some guy who mess with her,
he end at bottom of the lake!”
Tobacco tin scrapes over floor.
The lighter dances. “Take, take, take!”
Ruta stirs a purple puddle.
“You want some soup? I heat it up.”
She ties her hair back. Hums a tune.
Pours purple in an orange cup.
“I wanted all my life to go
to West. But now I change my mind.
The West is changed. Here, have some bread.”
She sighs again, at humankind.
Yuri babbles to his feet
and stumbles, “Blyat! Moya golova!”
The bathroom could be in Japan.
His one leg hovers round the other.
He falls like wardrobes off a cliff
and paints the stairs in lumpy white.
The landing carpet is his bed.
He snores away into the night.
Ruta howls, “Tu girtas kvailys!”
Bucket. Soapy water. Rag.
She scrubs the stairs until they sparkle,
scrubs until her elbows lag.
His mattress sinks. She tucks him in.
The bedroom door, in silence, closes.
“Alfie, take the other corner.
Night, my dear.” And off she dozes.
