Vozdootion the air was

Vozdootion the air was
cold and moist with oily spit
but not in the metro
where I hurried with
my backpack like a
plastic bag sidestepping
melting lumps  of timidly liquid while
and dirt the girl sat
with an outstretched flare
of blonde a hand pining
for two Roubles and in
the other a tiny baby
Other days I had barely
noticed her or the
statue of Lenin sweeping
across Finskii Vokzal
fingers a slipping gesture
only today the man
in front of me handed her
a coin as she had it between
her breasts in spite of a
heartbeat and then again
a small white teacup
The Square of Lenin
they call it just that
Pining such a weak word
As is 24,000,000
 maybe I deserve it:
the tear feeling just
screwed out of my eyes
her eyes did not ever skip
and the man walked on
adjusted his fur hat
as he stepped onto the escalator