An ex-soldier who wishes
to remain anonymous
(let's call him Vasily Ivanovitch)
has not washed his socks for a month.
He had enough to last the desert
winter, and celebrates the spring of sandals
as laundry. Drab foot-ends,
argyle knots, once celebrated
by him as an end to the tortuous wrappings
that he could never master,
are lined for inspection
on the living room floor.
He gives them a rude order, and walks
outside into the world of bare feet
and Anka the girl with no machine gun
waits for him.