his name was Mister Navalny!

his name was Mister Navalny!

and he had me sit on his knee

to listen to the tale of a hot cup of tea

and an airplane ride

when he fell sick and almost died

at the hands of the FSB,

an unscrupulous spy agency

lurking in the eastern shadows

and everybody there knows

which way the Russian wind blows.

so Putin, they say,

always gets his way

and as he grows older

he grows bolder,

killing morning flowers with a stroke of his pen;

killing poets and friendly businessmen.

there are times on a Moscow street,

one recognizes the face of a passing stranger they meet

and it's frightening,

like swallowing a bottle of vodka thunder and lightening

on the birthday of a fresh-faced baby

no if, and, but, or maybe,

simply a sudden spark in the dark

or a swim in a river guaranteed to make one splash and shiver

a final time before a change of the mind,

hearing footsteps scurrying from behind

on the thirteenth floor and the narrow balcony:

two more places for a last breath before checking out of reality.

his name was Mister Navalny,

taking a soft drink while sitting in an aisle seat

listening to his steady heartbeat.

and steady as it goes,

wearing his commoner shoes and clothes

and everybody there knows

which way the Russian wind blows.