Another hard late afternoon,
when I stop at Starbucks for coffee
after work. It is a hot summer.
The sun is settled comfortably in
the cloudless American sky and shines
irresistibly. I enter in a dark mood but it looks
as if some other sun is glowing inside.
A lot of blond girls sit on the tables. They laugh,
take selfies, text on their iPhones and talk
in that strange and beautiful language. They’re
so pretty, so perfect, so pure, exactly like morning
dew over the endless taiga.
I wondered if I could talk to them about
Stenka Razin or about Berdyaev, Shestov,
but they probably will not care for Mayakovsky,
or even less for Mandelstam.
I’m sure of that. They just want to sit and
talk about malchikov; to throw back that
fair silk of hair, making all men here to
sigh involuntarily; to cross their long naked legs
under the sun’s rays and just to live as if life
happened only in order for them to appear in
I watched how the virgin American boys glanced
at them behind the screens of their MacBooks,
how the baristas gently pronounced their names
as they call them to get the coffees – Yuliya,
Nadezhda, Svetlana, Elena, Anna, Marusya…
Oh, you virgin boys, I know what you want,
but you will never get it.
These girls, bringing so much light into your
plastic lives, are from another world and
for other men. Don’t even dream about them,
otherwise you will go mad of lust and
As for me, I took my coffee and went outside,
and I once again looked at them through the window,
and I smiled, for there was still such beauty
in this ugly world.