In the exiled world, Jews have
phone calls and Facebook to keep up
with yontifs and life events
In New York I come up empty. A funeral across
Boro Park, streets shut off, Hasidim rend clothes
and scream to Shomayim. In Manhattan
I heard nothing. I davened mincha
between meetings, prayed to my food and
nobody caught it but me and G-d.
Work is a joke, it possesses me all day then flies
back to its lair, but I like it. I’m unharmed.
I’m fine with this tradeoff. On the train
I consider writing a poem but Netflix
wins out. I just started Shtisel and need to see
if the husband comes home. Next to me
stands a Hasid, a real one, in penguin clothes
clutching his phone to his heart like a siddur.
He’s two episodes ahead of me. I watch an actor
mime a blessing over kugel, try to lip-read
to see if he gets it right. Amen, I whisper, soft enough
for me to hear, for him, for us three.
