THE GRAY MORNING
This gray morning is like the unwashed feet of a dancer,
and between the trees,
like between the toes, there’s dirt
of the night feasts: empty bottles,
packs of nuts and chips,
cigarette butts.
Garbage trucks dump waste containers in themselves,
as if a caring nurse empties bedpans
from under a palsied millionaire’s rear end,
who watches cartoons and soap operas all day long,
drooling on his neck
and on his gold chain.
The weather is disgusting like a cat squished by a truck.
And the wail of police sirens
is heard in the distance
as if a purple rogue elephant
races through the stone jungles.
Translated by Sergey Gerasimov from Russian
