Oh the gentlemen are talking in another room,
And I listen, still and silent, like the peering moon.
Shadows cross the lick of light beneath my door,
While their boots knock ditties on the wooden floor.Through the wall I hear them singing
Of a woman who is far,
Of the march of the cossacks,
And the red eastern star.And before my dreams will claim me
I will hear their glasses clink;
“Here’s to home, and health, and future.”
“And to me,” I think.
I edited this from the original to better reflect what I was trying to get at when I first wrote down this memory (because it’s more of a memory than a poem, for sure) – the sense of being excluded, while, at the same time, the sweetness and familiarity of these male adults in the next room.
I had originally conceptualized a poem that did not rhyme, and was a whole lot more serious and probing. But the more I thought about it – the more I realized that the sleepy subject matter should be framed as a lullaby. And so it goes.
Natalia A. 
(long-time lurker, sorry!)
It took me a moment to realise this was your own work – not out of doubt for your awesomeness, but because it’s so resonant I couldn’t believe I didn’t grow up reading/hearing it. Thanks for providing the best kind of false nostalgia here, and for everything else you’ve written.
Sometimes poem and metaphors are a more ‘resourceful’ way of revealing one’s thought than prose.
Memories, poets, thoughts – the boundry is not always clear ….
Thanks, shan! “Work” is a strong word here, ;).
Yep, E. Although some people’s criteria of what constitutes poetry is very, very stringent. And it doesn’t make much sense, but, like obscenity, you know it when you see it.
You might like Elliott Smith.
http://crazierthan.blogspot.com/2007/05/brief-deviations.html