Sniggering little schoolboy, keep that up,

and I’m sending you

to detention

in Raskolnikov’s room.

 

Is that what you want?

 

Exile in

Rodion

Romanovich

Raskolnikov’s

Room?

 

A tiny cupboard of a room

about six steps in length.

 

Toxic urine-colored

paper peeling off its walls.

 

So low-pitched, the ceiling will

transform you into a hunchback.

 

One rickety chair.

 

A slack-springed

sofa for your bed,

chintz gone to rag,

a ratty overcoat for covers,

a balled-up terry cloth bathrobe

for your pillow.

 

Worse, a tattered copy of

Atlas Shrugged

on the bedside table

to be annotated.

 

Sniggering little schoolboy,

Is that want you want?

 

If not, cut it out.

 

Right now.

 

Thank you.