Saint Petersburg is enigmatic

to the average tourist, hoping,

For a quick look , and some shopping:

 

Sitting, self-satisfied,with an old lady

Praying before her, and Ladoga Lake

For when the Neva River forsakes

 

The escape of the nomenklatura

To greener, foreign upland pastures

Gunning great Zils to Finnish rapture.

 

Now they return, slipping in once more,

Palaces and Cathedra again to warm,

Peer from curtains at pulsating swarms

 

Of paying customers with western cash,

As leathered apparatchiks paw Party Cards,

Both stained brown with age, and disregard;

 

In such a place of beauty, one's entitled to expect

A modicum of plain dealing, of an honest bob,

Earned in the provision of services – its national job.

 

And yet the olden days still linger,

Stuck in recollections of a dreadful past,

To ensure old memories the longer last.

 

Chris Hubbard

2021