Ilya

You might wonder why his lips are permanently pursed
---is right term for lips pushed forward as if to whistle?
It happened on a midnight drive from Suffolk to Pongo
when for the trip's duration he whistled "Dixie,"
a ploy he used to mitigate what nearly happened,
when in him surged the urge to bloody mayhem Nuda,

faithful bride of 20 years.

For no apparent reason,Nuda freaks out every now and then
and cursing gushes awful. Poor Ilya Andreiavich, what for him to do?
To slam a woman is not civil; to slam one as crazy as Nuda is wicket.
To get away from the temptation, Ilya does the haul to Pungo by the sea,
listening to radio, intermittently whistling "Dixie,
stopping at Stop and Go to re-stock beer,

and buying ticket that may win a million, maybe home to somewhere far.

Arriving at Pongo, Ilya goes barefooted onto the strand to share the sand
neath spiraling stars with homeless strangers coughing, groaning in the dark.
The sound of morning breakers awaken him in the grip of a mystery embrace.
Fortunately, for Ilya and Nuda, this tryst (unlike that of another time)
is but a middle age illusion amongst hermit crabs, huddled bodies,
ambitions abandoned and a washed in so much flotsam.

So back to Suffolk in the F-150 with dual exhausts.

How different it would have been,
were Nuda still playing viola
with string quartet in Mother Russia
and Ilya Andreiavich were still teaching calculus
to disinterested youths, future skinheads?
Tomorrow will be another year for the couple in self exile.

As for tonight, they watch in abject silence, The David Letterman.