​A Familiar Schedule of Religious Observances


My grandfathers and grandmothers board
in separate cars. The men hold on 
to the leather straps, swaying and mumbling,
heads slightly bowed. The women
swim the air three times with their bent arms,
gathering it toward themselves, then cover their
closed eyes with their palms. Eventually, they get off,
one by one, and disappear into the ether.

My parents, in retirement leisure, board 
together. My father plays the sad clown
for the only little kids around, and both run
into his open arms. My mother offers her pruned
parchment cheek to an excessively dressed
and perfumed woman, then kisses her
in return—as if swallowing a stone. 
Then everyone sits down. 
In the reverie of motion, my father murmurs
syllables he learned by rote as a child,
as did his father; my mother, not wanting
to be left out, moves her lips. When it’s almost
time to disembark, they stand up, arms
around each other—as never at home— 
and around  the strangers on each side, 
swaying. Eventually, they disengage
and step off, one by one, disappearing
into the ether.
                        
You and I, so busy Elsewhere, leap on 
just as the doors are closing. We fumble
with the unfamiliar books. The train rocks, 
and we lose our places. We rumble into stations
memorializing the names of our grandparents
and parents. It’s as if our children
never were. You bring along your father’s
prayer shawl in its sueded bag,
and I, my father’s, in its velvet pouch--
as though, if you hood yourself
in that cream and blue, if I cloak myself
in that white and gold, we will each
be recognized, and find arms
to run into, when, at separate times,
lonely, we disembark.