I want to get on that Russia-list.
To be among those who can’t go to Moscow—
would be so Chekhovian, bittersweet
not to see the Cyrillic sights, or trade in
Gazprom futures, or pass gas in Red Square.
Here in the Times is a list of my peeps, my peers—
the Jews, the odd, the Kleptocrat wannabes,
the comedians, the gays, the left-wingers, a few right
who despise George Santos, his lies which
make them queasy, though wonder at how easy.
Some who grew up in Brighton, or 108th in Queens—
and here a Huckabee from Arkansas,
notorious for lying herself.
And others, much kinder, smarter—
actors, heiresses, entrepreneurs, free-thinkers
who submit clever Shouts to The New Yorker,
most never to be heard
except for an occasional squint
through that imperious monocle
All of us who would have been
red diaper-babes once upon a time
whose mothers never lived to see the day
our names had made the Russia-list
in The New York Times.
