A member of the Russian Actress Guild
Said to me, “Poets die young,
Because they are worn out from talking to God.”
I’ve no part left to play, drunk
And smoking on a post-Soviet couch.
Foolishly, I’d worn myself out
Listening to the whistle of your tea kettle,
Too polite to ask
Which of us should shut it off?
Who should slice the lemon, etc.?
Then a patch of plaster fell
And you, God, you stared at it.