You're the third comrade, the one who doesn't make it:
dark and unhandsome, probably a Jew,
peddling samizdat and picking fights
with those who wish the trains would run on time.
"A living man's worth more than a dead hero,"
your blond friend counsels you, hand on your shoulder.
You clutch your wounded Homburg to your chest
and turn away from the camera. You'll earn
the privilege of a close-up in Act Three,
haloed beneath harsh studio lights, held up
by the strong hands of the two men you love,
have always loved. They'll brush snow from your eyelids
and bury you offscreen. Monkeys will sing
you to your rest in Rio de Janeiro,
where Christmas comes in summertime, and pour
a cup of coffee, warm and rich, for you.