I would
tear through
bureaucracy
like a wolf.
For credentials
I have no respect.
I’d send paperwork
straight to hell,
along with
the horse it rode in on.
But this document…
The polite functionary
moves
along the frontier
of cabins
and compartments.
People
proffer
passports
and I give
my little purple booklet.
Some passports
make him
show his teeth.
Others
he almost disdains.
And with respect he takes e.g.
the double-dormant
English lions.
With his eyes
he eats
the good ol’ boy up,
and bends
in a ceaseless obeisance,
and takes,
as though
accepting a tip,
a passport that’s an American’s.
Looks at a Polish pass
like a goat at an advert.
His eyes
bulge
as he looks at the Pole’s passport,
in dull
elephantine
police-ishness,
where’s this guy from,
and what
are these geographical fantasies?
Without turning
his cabbage-like bonce,
showing
no feelings
in any way,
he unblinkingly takes
the passports
of Danes
and all other kinds
of Scandi.
And suddenly,
as if he’s been burnt,
the fellow’s mouth contorts.
The functionary
takes hold of
my enormous,
red-skinned
passport.
He holds it
as though
it were a bomb
or a double-bladed razor
or a porcupine;
he holds it
as though
it were a six-foot-long
rattlesnake
with 20 fangs.
The porter
winks
meaningfully:
he’ll carry
my luggage
free of charge.
The gendarme
looks at the detective
questioningly;
the detective
looks back
at the gendarme.
Oh,
what joy
it would give
the gendarme class
to flog
and crucify me
on the spot
for having
in my hand
such a hammer-nosed,
sickle-cheeked
Soviet
passport.
I would
tear through
bureaucracy
like a wolf.
For credentials
I have no respect.
I’d send paperwork
straight to hell,
along with
the horse it rode in on.
But this document…
I draw it out
from my wide trousers,
a
priceless
burden.
Read it and weep,
you suckers: I’m a citizen of the Soviet Union.
