Classic Poem

Winter had arrived
in the cemented yard.
Certainly I had done well
to return without sending a telegram
from the journey
I had set out on without saying a word.

From there in the yard
I could detect my wife's secrets
while I had not been around
and even
detect my own secrets
from that day with me not around.

Yet I was not in the least
bit amazed.
(Besides, I was probably
far too weary.)
Just as the journey had been
unable to amaze me,
it would not do to be amazed
at that period of absence
once I was back home.

Repeating: " Fool drunk on common sense
drunk on common sense
common sense
common . . . "
I just keep busy
at something or other.
And I reflect that it's because
the drunkenness I left behind,
threw away
hurled
into the white seas of Sorok-do,
has not yet
all worn off . . .