D: The Russian Guard

He stood between
me and the Kremlin,
a thousand years of history
and Putin
his responsibility.

He wanted to see
what was in my pockets
and I somehow trembled
at this minimal demand,
fumbled, brought out coins,
a handkerchief
and a still sealed pack
of aspirin.

He beckoned at my only other pocket,
still not pleased to see me,
and I wished that I could tell him
that I'd just seen Lenin
in his waxy wake -
his state still looked okay to me.

At last I disentangled
my hotel keys from threads
that pockets reserve
for such occasions,
held them up triumphantly.

I wished I spoke his language,
but I didn't,
and he really smiled and waved me on,
satisfied that I'd obey
the rules that tourists all obey;

I walked between the carefully drawn lines
The Kremlin mine,
he'd live to fight another day.