We would have danced
to the Beatles, you and
I, with a vodka in one
hand and our poetry
in the other. I would 
have taught you some 

New steps you undoubtedly
never heard of before: go
softly, don’t shout and sing
when you can’t find the words
to speak your sadness.  

How I would have paid any-
thing to have seen you grow
old, the blonde thinning, the
gorgeous smile smothered in
my kisses and your wrinkles 

From too much thinking,
and what kind of poem would
you have written for me, for
instance, my dear lonely boy?

Or am I just another poet in
your young life, where 
love is the same as a terrible
noose around your neck and

Too much vodka—oh Sergei
Yesenin, what a contrary little
boy you certainly are, but I will
wait for you anyway in the next life.