Ivanteyevskaya Ul. 17

The doors slid to. It shuddered,
sighed and stalled, bounced
and settled back.
The light went out.

Eight storeys, four flats
on each floor. No sound.
The smell was urine.

Boots slurred in the hall.
‘Ya Anglichanin. Dver zakrit.’
A man’s long stride,
receding up the stairs.

Slow taps, coming down.
High heels, perhaps.
‘Pozhalsta, bitte, please.’
The front door slammed.

Panic, unkennelled, leaping,
held down.
Two women after a good night out.
Fifty, at a guess, in furs.
‘Dver zakrit. Die Tür geschlossen ist.’
Like rubbing sticks.
‘Da, da.’ They laughed
and went on up.

I gabbled to strangers in the dark
as silence piled like snow.

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