A very cool poem from The New Yorker this week.
Russian Girl on Parizska
At twenty, you hold this street's attention
better than the Bolshoi could -
the boots, the perfume, not to mention
the bling and ermine on your hood.
The way you walk is slash and burn.
Like understatement's now a crime.
You leave a wake of men who turn
to make sure they were right the first time.
They're like small countries who betray
their old allegiances ahwile.
Bound over you as your vassals, they
blame others when they go on trial.
You yawn, head for a brasserie -
all gold and mirrors, lit like Christmas -
and join the two men drinking tea,
dressed in black suits, who mean business.
-Justin Quinn
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