The samovar’s fabulousness has come to town.
Similarly, sweetness. Fake religion. Or hypocrisy.
But I’ve no complaints, am merely stashing deviations
On everyone’s take on the popular—i.e., I take pleasure
In defending the not-so-obvious, those murdering antlers
Of my dear grandmothers’ passion for intelligent gossip,
Its metal untarnished through weeks. I am, married, ergo
Fun-loving, nonchalantly lugubrious in tasting the fruits
Of chemistries on TV. Care for vodka with spy women?
Care for sun, or matutinal moon drops on the erstwhile
Beaches of WWII? Hell, yeah. Hell, yeah. You are so
Right, I am just carousing. But is that not better than
Loudly boasting, nursing a cantankerous glee on our
Night of departures, our silent nature being killing?
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