A few hours of awe

[esh12]

My fingers touch
the golden chain around your neck.
Your hair is a mess on Sunday.
I hear words:
“hold - don’t hold”.
Strangers walk outside the window.

Let me tell you something.
I knew you at the synagogue.
I had the last strawberry pastry.
I stole the lemon tinge
beneath your tongue.
My hands were scrolls
in an ancient language,
ruins of a city
built by the people of God.

The last bus came late.
We were set on a cab.
The street smelled of money -
Versace, a word from your other life.
Your car was warm
and I let you talk past Kennedy
to buy 15 minutes along the shore.
Do you remember the skyline?
The city was naked like a mistress.
Planes fly there once a year
and rattle the glass.

I used to chain-smoke
on the cruise ship
that circles the islands.
Coffee reminds me of those nights.
I remember your skirt
and your tongue and
your pink top and your eyes
gazing at list after list.
You are seen by the world.
I learned something 
from the old professor at the cafe.
“Listen,” he said,
“you are rich in a way
science can't understand.
Your heart is made of flesh,
it holds the sorrow
of your generation.”