Pogrom
By Paul Cameron Brown
There is an unhurried resemblance to pain, here,
this Fiddler on the Roof commodity, potables, fine oaken chest
for one and furs; but wait,
the Czarist police are busting up the place-
a program is having its desired effect
on our emotions, the wine cellar smashed
as tears are falling like bloody heaps
in the red snow, cuttersleds
carting off the sundry feelings
we've invested in, a relationship
already staledated two years old.