Poetry

Barbara Fisher: Two Poems

Remembering Moscow   What do I remember of Moscow? Not enough probably. I never knew exactly where the hotel was in relation to sights seen— Red Square unbelievably huge, onion domes of many colours and the Kremlin chock-full of cathedrals. The chance too of one’s photo taken with a convincing group of look-alikes, Marx, Lenin and the last Tsar. Oh, and the terrifying traffic. But what I remember most is wondering why the hotel dining-room was serving so many young couples, American, each with a small child at their table. They did not seem like tourists, were not surrounded with…

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