Sunday, June 16, 2013

Daydreams of Putin

I hid behind sunglasses,
when tears pushed through
I thought of Vladimir Putin shirtless.

My thoughts were cloaked,
but I’m not so sure she didn’t guess. I wondered

what dreams the Russian president let go,
if he made mixed tapes
for American presidents
but kept them for himself,
if he saw Chechnya as a metaphor
for some recurrent heartbreak.

My thoughts bent around
cheap plastic rims, back
to the problems I’d been avoiding:

there was no outcome I could label success.
She was my Chechnya.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

nice poem, jake. -hp