Mizmor L'David Anthology
An
ancient veteran,
famished,
lurched into the
nouvelle deli
and straight away,
unaware of the
Seniors’ Specials,
settled for a steamed
bananafish.
“Make sure it’s hot!”
he bellowed at
the young hostess.
Just outside,
freshly washed
downtown streets glistened
with cool, clean,
remodeled commerce,
purged of
smoky animal fat
and crispy dermal leftovers.
Jewbirds,
chittering Tattoo,
flew frantically
up a side alley toward
the very last independent cookstore
and grabbed crumbs
from a going-out-of-business sale,
whose remains
were to be burnt
as tax write offs.
I really do see
some added value
in time’s accrued
march-march-march,
but the slow roasted
heyday of our
cafeteria’s faded linoleum
had been more haimish,
and it muted
flashbacks
to Spam cans and mess kits,
their metallic taste
channeling carnage
along the border between
St.-Lô and Lwow.