“So then he says to me . . .”

by Dmitry Kuzmin
translated by James McGavran, Katherine Tiernan O’Connor,  and Boris Wolfson, with Dmitry Kuzmin

“So then he says to me . . .”
for O.S., M.M.

“So then he says to me: I’m a messenger now, you’ll never guess
what they have me deliver —
butterflies!  Like for parties: you know, so they fly around!  And
he looks at me, the asshole,
as if I’m supposed to flip out: wow, a butterfly, that’s so
beautiful.  But for me, these butterflies
might as well be turds!  It’s like shit flying around!”
Do I turn, look at her, or to hell with her?  Gentrification
is what you have here, my dear Muscovites: the bars and pubs,
the red brick,
they tempt you with craft beer, good old England, no more
no less,
for fancy college kids on their way back from class,
and patrons from a theater whose director has been cast into jail.
Shall I lead you out of Kursk Station, madam?  Where’s my
magic pipe?
But how do I get the Kursk Station out of you?  Can I draw it out        with my
song?