At the airport in Moscow

At the airport in Moscow
you can read a book,
in some corner shop
you can drink coffee with moloko,
sip tee.
You can sit on a bench and
let your head dance a falling asleep dance,
you might call a friend,
run through the gates not to miss
your flight,
you can buy forgotten gifts,
for your uncle who probably stares
at the news right now.
You can fight with a soldier
who takes away your perfume,
body lotion or coke, but the regulations are clear.
You can fight for who ever knows what.
and let the bomb explode.
You might regret you've started traveling,
the book won't be read to end,
the head stops the falling asleep dance
the tee might burn your hand,
you might think of your plant you haven't watered
before you left
and a friend on the other side of your phone
will curse the damned russian reception.