The Chef and the Poet Walk in the Park
(To Adrain, written in strict rhyme and meter by his request)
“Write me a poem,” said the blond chef—
to me my critic and cousin at best.
Again, we seize the park, stealing air,
our Eden from this bitter city’s glare.
“Write me a poem.” He said it, it was so!,
from behind gold, Russian curls that flow:
flow! from our land’s poesy itself,
golden as the pages on history’s shelf.
We walk. He stills the river’s electric verse,
he names its music with memorized verse.
He names it as Adam or Pushkin could do,
he finds where the heart of Russian verse grew.
“Gardens!” Edens! far in the corners of D.C.
It’s my chef-cousin who helps me see there’s
a Russian poem buried in this city!
Let me write some life into this land’s beauty!
Now, his request hangs big in my chest.
What to hand my critic and cousin-at-best?
With only this mem’ry, I come to my home
and write how he said, “Write me a poem.”
© 2010 Constantine Kulakov
