Gray streetcar slinks through fog.
Faces bleak as the day.
Reminding me we aren’t free.
Making me want to seek Russians,
Ask at Stowe Lake if they think we are free, if we still have a great nation.
As we circle the lake bundled for the cold, I say
Whenever I see streetcars in the fog I picture Moscow,
how Russians feared everything. Am I right?
Do we fear like that?
We walk in silence watching fog drift on Strawberry Island.
We cross a bridge, walk a dirt path like in Russia.
Go on, they say.
Those dreary faces terrify me. Nobody’s got a glimmer of hope.
I heard in Russia authorities drew shades over train car windows.
In the pagoda on the shore we gaze at each other.
Americans perverted freedom, he says. They still do.
Your corruption of it created this police state. There is plenty of food,
but if we run low you have nothing to rely on.
Freedom lives in the soul. America’s is dying.
We watch and listen to birds.
He continues, People are naive. You think you’re free shopping.
In Russia we knew they stifled us. Yes. I am scared.
Not for me. For guys like you who die when they are not free.
Copyright © 2022 by David Vaszko