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Comrade Leonid
Approaches the death of narrative
Like his own death. With exemplary
Caution. Who knows
The 19th century might yet return?
A weary nation helps him dress.
Undress. Organizes the shopping. Makes
Tints of his eyebrows. For breakfast
He is brought a grapefruit. Cereal.
Milk. When Leonid drops the spoon
No one even sighs. The ridden
Bed, we are told, once belonged
To a Czarina. The big television
Is the very latest from America.
The Palace staff watch Dynasty.
Comrade Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev
No longer has any thoughts left.
He has survived everything once.
This is the great achievement.
And now he has rusted like Truth.