Parking 101
                         for Brandon

Last space, two white lines.
                      Easy.
Two white lines, park here,
pull between two white lines,
easy, basketball boy in the
back seat, raindrops the size of
Liz Taylor gems pelt the roof.

I’m in.
            Get out of the car
            get out of the car
Look. I’m on the left line.
            Get into the car
            get into the car.
            Belt in, hurry hurry, late late.

Back up, slow down, watch the van
on the right, car behind wants the space.
                      No way.
Belt in belt in, pull up between
two lines. Easy. Unbelt, get out of the car,
rain, umbrella, slam doors.

Look—on the right line now.             
                    How?
Get into the car, belt in,
hurry hurry, late late.

Third try, pull in—done.

I ask him, when you are old enough to drive,
do you want me to teach you how to park?

His eyes roll back behind his eight-year-old
forehead. I’d rather be taught by a duck, he says.

                       



Driven

    Best of Luck and Drive Right, Art Jocher
                             —yearbook autograph, EHS


When I was sixteen I sat behind the wheel
of a blue Chevrolet, property of Eastside High.

Atop the car, a rectangular sign--STUDENT DRIVER,
KEEP BACK, like post office most-wanteds.

Duplicate gas pedals and brakes connected drivers
to Mr. Jocher, who doubled as a football coach.

Three students to a session (two cowering in back
without the benefit of seat belts) awaited turns

to ply the streets of Paterson, time out from Trig,
American History, time to gain enough experience

for learner permits by our next birthdays. When we
reached a curve, downshifted into second, all inside

listed to the right, to the left, while Mr. Jocher called
Brake   Brake   BRAKE, his face red—with what?

Anger? Fear? Chest Pain? We’d head for the Tenth Avenue
Circle, a high note in the song of a city filled with prosperity,

its schools nesting grounds for a generation that left without a
gaze backward. By the end of a forty-minute drive—Mr. Jocher:

clothed in the sweat we’d caused. Park   Park   PARK,
he barked as we navigated between trash cans he’d arranged

outside the gym. He’d amble away, a little wobbly, no
goodbyes, to rest up for his next outing, unaware of how well

he’d prepared us for the lifetime of miles we would encounter.
                                                                        
                                                                                —from Dear Kinfolk

 


The Parade

                   
Through the front door marched
a parade of young men, dispatched
by friends and solicitous relatives who
feared my barren spinsterhood.

An architect who doubled as a concert
pianist, a lawyer with the world’s fattest feet,
a giant with frizzed curls the color of fizzy
champagne, a doctor whose height allowed me
to inspect his hairy ears while dancing.

Dinner dates, steak house along the Palisades,
pasta palace that called itself Chateau, famed
Luchow’s where an oompah band accompanied
my endless boredom, Chinatown, where the
hematologist with spittle running down his chin said
I take all my blind dates here because it’s cheap.

The parade went on for years, now and again requiring
that I export myself to upstate New York where my
married sister and Aunt Helen lined up prospect
One summer day, heeding my internal marching band,
I met a winking young man from Iowa who lived just
a floor below in my high rise. The next year, a parade
of bridesmaids and groomsmen preceded my walk to destiny.

When we gathered in upstate New York to memorialize
Aunt Helen, my Aunt Regina told my husband how lucky
I was, what a service he had done for the family, 
we thought she’d never find anyone, she said.

                                                            -from Sugar and Sand


Are We Done Yet?


When our daughter was four
we lit Chanukah candles atop
the Lane record cabinet, our first
purchase as a married couple.

In our new home we could look
out the window at the house below,
where the Todds’ Christmas tree stood
in their den, where lights of every color
led to a star on top that seemed
to descend directly from Heaven.

We chanted our prayers,
Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu,
melekh ha'olam, allowed Karen
to hold the shamash—the kindling
candle—for her first time, hustled Katey
to the other side of the room lest she
light up her pajamas. Our ritual complete,
we gifted them: a doll, a book, matching
jumpers, then sang songs from preschool.

Dinner, I told everyone, the greasy
latkes—fried potato pancakes—  
already blackened at the edges
as they sat in oil on the new gold
General Electric range.
Wait, Mommy, I have a question,
Karen said, what’s that in the window
over there?  I tell her it’s a Christmas tree.

Why don’t we have a Christmas tree?
Because we’re Jewish, I said. She wanted
to know then, before eating the
brisket cut into small pieces so she
wouldn’t choke, before crunching
the latkes, now on the edge of soggy,

When will we be finished being Jewish?

                                             -from Dear Kinfolk