Che Burashka

Che Burashka

Che Burashka

I am at the airport, the security check,
wasting time in duty free and queuing at the gate.
I am getting on a plane – almost and, as a rule,
there will be distance – but I promise you
I will not be far away.

I am searching in St. Petersburg for Che Burashka.
I hear he might live across the street
from where they have me staying.
In any case, I will find him and, like I said,
bring him back to say hello.

(Your godmother, by the way,
sends love from the capital. Yesterday,
she too went looking but he has, so far,
eluded her). So, I am searching in St. Petersburg
for Che Burashka

and have tracked him down to across the street,
next door to the place where they sell
plyushki, kvas and tea. No crocodiles I’m afraid.
(Next time there might be).

The old ladies on the street, some of them
sell oranges in broken crates from Spain.
And some of them are weeping,
offering kittens up for kopeks, kneeling
on Nevsky with outstretched palms.
Beside the churches and the imperial glitter –
all impressive and useless.

Then, drinking coffee in the Singer Cafe,
I thought of my mother’s sewing machine
and the little shops (they are in every place I’ve been)
with miniature looms of various threads
and belting needles, a foot-pedal also.
I don’t know why; this may be
the proletarian piano. Made to be repaired
and stave off obsolescence.

Perhaps. There was a little girl talking
to her papa at the table next to mine
about the cartoons you watch
and he, like I do, knew all the names.
In case you go there, they spell it with a zed:
Zinger. As in Zuider. As in the zee
you should not adopt.

I am at the airport. The security check.
Singing songs with Che Burashka.
At the gate. On the plane.
Distant by definition. I promise
I will not be far away.