It’s got to be written of us that we were happy,
some in Brampton, some in Alexandra Road,

some with Kosher Kingdom sushi, some fed by Gift,
others still cooking their own kugel/hamim.

It’s got to be written that all the different shuls
made a back-and-forth, that shirs furrowed brows,

that women hugged big Talmuds, men tucked them under-arm
and both stood foot-to-foot, outside, waiting for lifts for five-minute drives.

It’s got to be written that the bell never stopped ringing after nine
and some never gave at the door, others always did,

parents, children, housekeepers handed reluctant
embarrassed, generous or indifferent pennies, pounds,

fivers to charismatic or coarse shnorers,
whose drivers’ engines idled as they checked their lists,

business, duty – this small sector
of the mechanics of self-help?
...