The bus is shaking, knocking its passengers around;
it stops- Vzlyotnaya, Svyetochnaya,
and if you could see the original copy,
(I mean of this poem)
you could tell how distastrous it is,
writing a poem on a bus in Barnaul.
There are things you write about because someone has to write about them,
if I don't, people will forget Barnaul, or they,
might never learn what Barnaul is.
I'm moving soon; even I could forget Barnaul, I guess,
but what I'd like to remember is:
1. The mess a bus makes of my handwriting.
2. The fog on the windows in May (May 3rd).
3. How the bus nearly tips over when it left-turns over the trolley tracks.
4. Driving past the beginning of Spring in Siberia.