Khrushchev rolls his eyes

under a wrinkled pate.

He’s stuck in his western suit,

looking the part of someone

a kid can recognize.

He’s sick of history,

over-worked, his nailbeds

soft and ashen:

here’s Khrushchev standing

with comrades at the Kremlin Wall.

I was twelve.

I can remember

him telling the world

it mattered who ruled

the Russian state.

Now Khruschev puts pennies

on Brezhnev’s eyes.

Like a grandame

pruning violets, he fusses

over the dead man’s tie,

seems to stop in some emotion,

sighs and sighs,

and wags his head

at the khaki-breasted soldiers

guarding the casket ends.

Does he wonder if any of them,

his comrades or him,

were ever so young?—

perfectly smooth as a nimbus,

hollow and clear.