There’s hardly any honey
in a cup of Joe: lean
man, black man, hoarse
as the Cossack cousins were,
braying as a Berlin sky.

His eyes caged over Sundays,
juggling the world within;
with his half corrupted hair,
marching on without him—

Who would drink such
uninhibited ennui, such
misanthropy? Who
would master Master
Stalin and celebrate
with tea?