The room  is crowded, stuffy, sultry 

people wait with an air of frustration.

This functionay loves his power

to make people wait,

to make people wait for pieces

of paper necessary to live.

Some need to register births, others deaths,

some sway and smell of drink,

others stink of sweat with holes in their clothes.

A woman is beginning to  plead, not screech, beg

for milk tokens

she is pregnant - with children to see to. 

She goes back to waiting.

The functionary draws the blinds

it is very hot and not yet 10am in Odessa.

One or two people wave Russian bank notes at him:

he sees these first:

one is paying a fine, the other taxes.

It is nice to talk to educated people, with money

even if they are Ukrainian.

Next he sees the pregnant woman again so needy.

She has an uncompleted form requesting assistance in the form of vitamins for her children.

She cannot read or write Russian.

Peasant, he thinks. Ah! his coffee has arrived,

he slurps as he drinks,

as he registers births, marriages, deaths.

Lots of deaths.

He deals with permissions for change of use, alterations, bedrooms, kitchens

the committee will review all these - in time -

we spare no expenses in rebuilding after the bombing.

The functionary often looks out of the window but all he can see is the gallows tree.