In this safe and sacred space,
Mah Tovu harmonies collide.
He shoots the greeters
first. He doesn’t need a prayerbook.
The rabbi, hearing pa pa pa from two flights down,
assumes the coat racks have fallen.
From the sanctuary,
she remembers the starting gun
from her old track meets
and takes off
down the back stairs,
past the cloakroom, the darkened library,
the deserted lavatories,
past the social hall’s varnished floorboards,
witness to purimshpiels, Bat Mitzvahs,
the occasional deli night. Finally,
the utility closet at the back
with its industrial brooms,
where she locks herself,
and, under her breath, sings
a song without words
is the first sung prayer in the service
praising the loveliness of our worship space.