The Pickled Lenin

The Pickled Lenin lies in a glass box,
Perpetually guarded from dust mites and rot,
But those who guard him unfortunately are not,
So guarded or so encased.

Faces behold him for many an hour,
Gawkers who marvel at baldy’s dark power,
Vanguard of revolt, revolution turned sour,
For but an hour,
By history’s sadly slow clock.

His chest seems to rise,
Beneath grey lids his eyes,
Dart about chasing faint brightness.

His old nostrils flare,
As though he is aware,
Of something malodorous about him.

And caught up in my own particular box,
Still crawling with mites, I am animated rot,
Chemically guarded wondering whether or not,
I climbed in of my own volition,
Into self-prescribed perdition.

And gawkers too, I can see,
Pause as they pass to have a good look at me.

But they soon catch the eye of their own reflection,
And,
Despite all the effort in my flawed projection,
Somehow, in the glass box I evade pure detection,
Well hidden by my transparent protection.

And,
Now and again, a passerby grins,
Before shaking his head disapproving.
Then shuffling along, I know it’s not long,
In his own cramped box he’ll be brooding.

And soon his grim case,
Will be heaved into place,
Among the many glass boxes about me.

And perhaps within,
I’ll hazard a grin,
Peeking out of my eyes dim corners.

For though we’re not dead,
But living instead,
We still anticipate mourners.

H.S. Sowards