As I bend
hanging laundry on the drying rack
my back twinges but just a little
ten minutes, I’m done
hanging laundry on the drying rack
my back twinges but just a little
ten minutes, I’m done
North of me, up the spine
of California, people stoop all day,
their fingertips chilled blue or heads
throbbing under brutal sun, picking kale,
carrots, strawberries that fill
my refrigerator
Later I lounge
in my ergonomic chair
hear “God Bless America”
sung in Yiddish “Got Bentsh Amerike”
a ceremony before tomorrow’s inauguration.
An immigrant named Isidor Baline became
Irving Berlin and wrote that song
in my ergonomic chair
hear “God Bless America”
sung in Yiddish “Got Bentsh Amerike”
a ceremony before tomorrow’s inauguration.
An immigrant named Isidor Baline became
Irving Berlin and wrote that song
Yiddish and Russian were
Irving Berlin’s mother tongues,
the languages my grandfather spoke
when he emigrated to Milwaukee at eighteen
Irving Berlin’s mother tongues,
the languages my grandfather spoke
when he emigrated to Milwaukee at eighteen
He worked in Gimbel’s shoes,
stooping to measure customers’ feet,
kneeling to slide on pumps and lace oxfords
He looked up and charmed, his English flawless
stooping to measure customers’ feet,
kneeling to slide on pumps and lace oxfords
He looked up and charmed, his English flawless
One son became an attorney
the other a CPA, his daughter
played harp in the symphony
the other a CPA, his daughter
played harp in the symphony
To labor is to pray, it’s said.
Surely the words are sweetest to God
when they come from those whose labor
is a perpetual bow, a prayer
that their children may rise
Surely the words are sweetest to God
when they come from those whose labor
is a perpetual bow, a prayer
that their children may rise
