Tuli Kupferberg and I are dancing.
He is light-years ahead of me,
Maybe old as twenty.
I myself cannot be
Many moons past eight.
We aren't holding hands exactly,
Only our fingertips touch.
They are sticky. We've been noshing
Messy chunks of halvah,
Melting chocolate gelt.
Mr. Slowpoke, my uncle Phil,
Fresh from a stretch in eternity,
Roller-skates across the floor
On wheels of salted bagels.
"Kam mit tsores!" he calls to us,
And time, the way it does in dreams,
Whirls by, dreidel-like,
Revealing all its sides
I am...I am distracted by
And winks from my mind's eye.
Tuli, meanwhile, is spieling
His nada, his gornisht, his nothing.
I am turned around.
Cracked and scratched beyond repair,
One of my favorite 78s
Is skipping like mad past all the best parts,
Bucking the needle at every turn,
Knocking it out of the groove.
Causes Peggy Landsman Supports
Green Peace, Pro Literacy Worldwide, International Planned Parenthood, Doctors without Borders, National Jewish Health