bag

 

 

she shakes
like men used to
do, like my grandfather
or even my father,
before,
she went to the
bathroom and I got
up came back
and there's she as if
shuckling with tears
like older men.
I never saw the
women, the older ones-
they might have done
the same - she had
my pen - clearly black
and white papers
she shuffles precariously
unfolded matching grains
of wood
benches like this
where I used to sit
and watch hungry for
lunch to come after
musaf after they added
a word or two
though
repeating a silent prayer
has its necessity - I would
wait - amazed by the
occasional tear and shake
that Nat told me were
unintentional, repentant
done shamelessly without
control with
backs arched over to
return forward in prayers
for rain and sustenance
so
I
think
when she shuffles that
it might be a thought
a bathroom realization spouting
the cries of old men
my dad told me to
ignore
as he does,
though, we don't
see them anymore.
His father could have had
those tears, he was lucky
and out
of a job.
It could be those
lines in front where
she leans - they cried
over words when I was
younger there, though it
was the WORD or
its reflection
which you could wrap
yourself into with stripes
white under blue or black
a moment and phrase in
age old rhapsody in
Europe's
Asian songs always a little
too much for my attention,
not soon enough for
her to lovingly fold
and place in her
lovely blue plastic
bag
those pages
she's leaving

 

my pen