Walking to school again.
Snow nestled in pine trees and
glitter dusting the icy streets,
my hands in pockets
and eyes on feet
as I walk, in silence, with the other teachers.
These are the people I live with
eat with
sleep with
breathe with.
They're always there
and still,
I am alone.
Sitting on the metro,
my hands in pockets
and eyes on feet,
the floor rocks back and forth as
I glance up at the stranger sitting
across from me.
A lovely Russian hat
decorates his Russian haircut and
frames his Russian scowl.
I glance to the left at a fellow teacher
standing and holding a metro pole
for balance; a lovely Russian hat decorates her
American haircut and frames her attempt
to frown like they do.
We try to blend in,
to to speak,
live, look as Russians do.
They always surround us, yet
we have never been more
alone.
