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In An Exclusive Restaurant In Moscow, Near Pokrovsky Cathedral; Around, Say, 1916
Should I give hungry menials
pieces of my juicy steak?
Should I be forced to give to them
that which they want to take?
Should I be forced to share with them
the fruits of my hard labor?
I do not owe them one damned thing.
None of them are my neighbor.
Yes, I know what Christ said about
the Good Samaritan:
but what is mine I need not waste
on any needy one.
That they cannot contribute
to this world a useful skill
does not mean that I must exchange
fine dining for crude swill.
My waiter's eyes have a strange glow
as he stares at my knife.
Would he like to plunge it into
my flesh to end my life?
My god, that menial bastard's eyes
twinkle with glee to gloat
as I bleed out because he plunged
that knife into my throat.
Starward
