DIARY OF MY HUSBAND'S ILLNESS: DEAR ALZHEIMER'S:
Monday, December 13, 2004
Abe's Gaze
Abe's far away gaze looks back to his father's grocery
in the Bronx and the apartment behind where he slept in the hall
with his brother, Sam, the rooms let to roomers.
Abe 's far away gaze peers up from underneath
the kitchen table as police in suits demand protection
so Henry Schweid's business can stay open,
in spite of theocratic blue laws, on Sundays,
Abe's far away gaze searches for his mother, Regina,
as she sells bundles of clothes door to door,
she having left him to wait for her on a chair in Alexander's department
store at 149th Street and 3rd Avenue, New York, New York.
Abe's far away gaze eyes the ground
as Regina pushes him under subway turnstiles,
she needing to save coins to bribe the cops.
Abe's far away gaze stares at neighborhood ruffians
who beat him black and blue for being a Jew-boy.
Abe's far away gaze watches parents read letters
of grandparents, cousins and aunts up up in chimney smoke.
Abe's far away gaze keeps him from the present.
He was never at home here.
- Esther Altshul Helfgott
This page was last updated on: June 9, 2006
