I’ve been driving for hours
to get to the old mill town,
It seems the synagogue
closed years ago,
but a rabbi davens
in the deserted street.
I rush from the car,
proffer a eulogy
crumpled and damp.
The rabbi looks up,
goes back to his prayers.
I wander out to the fields,
begin the harvest of
things put off.
What I find
are middle parts of family stories,
verses of old union songs,
names of tea roses.
I’m still wandering,
shanghaied in my sleep.
