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Mass Transit

August 5, 2014

Titanic. The Gymnasium

You asked me who Chekhov was.
As I read.
And I told you.
He was brilliant.
And dead.
And Russian.
But I never said.
The real beauty of Chekhov.
Is how his characters never find redemption.
Are ever stranded.
Who and where they are.
You would have hated that.
Though, perhaps.
It would have been better.
Than watching your eyes roll back in your head.
To your flowers.
To your phone.
Because, now, Chekhov’s book.
Is Chekhov’s gun.
It sits there under our TV.
Where we watch soap operas.
In which someone is redeemed each week.
It lays loaded on my tongue.
One day it must be fired.


From → Poetry

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