Yaroslav Smelyakov
Workers’ Canteens

I’ve come to love the homely comfort
Of Moscow’s factory canteens
Where big, strong hands pull hard-earned rubles
From jackets, overalls and jeans....

I love to come there of an evening
Into that teeming little world.
And meet before the cashier’s window
Men used to matching deed with word.

The whitewashed walls display no splendour —
No frescoes here or costly rugs.
Just quaint, naively painted roses
Reflected in most common mugs.

The soup-plates steam with vermicelli
Or, starry, glint with scalding borsch.
The saucy barmaid clicks her money.
Newcomers trail in from the porch.

They get their food and find a table
To eat - like workers, not like earls.
The tin spoons bend between the fingers
Of muscular suburban girls.

To taste the unassuming salad
Clad in their uniforms of blue,
Gay flocks of dimpled shopgirls hasten
Into those cozy precincts too.

Occasionally, brisk and breezy,
Proud of his handsome self at heart,
In clothes an attache would envy —
A miracle of tailor's art —

With boots rolled down to flaunt their lining
A wealth of colour in his cheeks —
Walks in a lad from a team of turners
Grown famous over recent weeks.

Keen youngsters hurry here, all eager
For the impending evening meal.
The place exudes a rich aroma
Of bread and plaster, borsch and steel.

Here minds are frank and hearts are open —
It’s you for me and ine for you.
I like (hem all and understand them
And know that I am welcome too.

Translated by Dorian Rottenberg