Here’s the latest ladle of psycho-stroganoff. As before, your candid appraisal would be most welcome. That includes criticism, constructive or otherwise.
Each fateful footfall draws him nearer:
His destination looms ahead,
Its details redrawn larger, clearer.
He counts each step with mounting dread
And racing heart as he retraces
The seven-hundred thirty paces
From his room to… that place’s door.
What seemed an ugly dream before
Now fills imagination’s page
With dialogue… direction… action.
Repulsion yields to the attraction
Of playing that scene on that stage.
Despite his nerves, he can’t reverse.
He mounts the stage; he must rehearse.
The street ahead is Sadovaya,
He knows — and yet, it’s still a shock
To stand before that building by the
Canal: A huge apartment block,
High-walled, with right- and left-hand gateway.
He falters… rallies!… forges straightway
Into the swarm around the hive –
Souls rushing out while souls arrive.
Amid the bustle and disorder
Of turbid tenantry that teems
The courtyard (bursting mortar seams!),
Unnoticed by some lurking porter
(How many work here? Four? Or three?)
He ducks in, thinking, ‘Lucky me!’