by Michael Estabrook
She rotates her closet, removes and replaces
her wardrobe every two years –
“They’re either worn or unused,
time for some newer designer styles,” she says,
in her thick Bond-spy-girl Russian accent.
My friend says, that’s such a waste.
But I’m thinking – anything Yana wants . . .
I mean look at her, just look at her,
such a beautiful, confident little thing.
(Shame on me, I’m old enough to be her father.
But I cannot help imagining her 100 pounds of
perfect femininity glistening in the shower
bright and hot as the sun.)
How could any man deny her anything!
“If only I were 20 (or 30) years younger
and could speak a little Russian,”
I mutter to my friend, Craig,
as we walk back to our hotel.
“I don’t think speaking a little Russian
is the only problem you’d have,”
he responds as the freezing night
of Sweden blows right through our old, cold,
non-designer gloves and hats and coats.
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