October, Far Away

“Icicles and red sickles,
you never forget,”
she tells me,
in Russian nuances,
at the concert house,
listening to Boris G.,
at a Sunday matinee,
with all the self-pity
of two souls by the fire.

Retreating from the music,
we shadow two critics
hovering in the lobby,
dressed quite alike,
with twin canes,
and two mistresses
playing opera queens,
hiding their programs
in matched Gucci bags.

Oblivious to the crowd
of opera lovers,
she offers me a light,
then accompanies me
to vodka cocktails
and the old cliches
that never seem to die
with revolutions.