For Menachem Mendel Schottenstein
Across Eastern Parkway the camera
recognized his walk,
neither absent-minded nor harried.
Alone, he did not run his hand
along a neighbor’s
brick wall. Only the maples’ top branches
acknowledged spring, holding it
like a secret. A taxi
sped downtown. How little is seen:
a fedora’s crown pinched on both sides,
the brim bent down,
an ordinary black overcoat and beard.
This is what bris means: each night
he carries home a briefcase
no more than a brown paper sack
stuffed with names to pray for.
Menachem Mendel,
may you learn your namesake’s walk.
ISSUE: Spring 2012