Joseph Reich
LES
hey what’s the point
of obituaries anyway?
i mean why not just leave
everything exactly as is?
the exact same things
the exact same scenes
the exact same situations
the exact same self-pity
and do not move a thing
the exact same drinking
of black licorice tea at 4
the exact same way
the sun goes down
over broken down
train yards at dusk
with the same strange
silhouette of the skyline
in the distance the lining
up of lonely toll booths
and bridges the ancient
synagogues and churches
not sure which is which
spitting out the same old
ethics and hieroglyphics
like some old stray dog tying
up his blind master to the corner
waddling home brokenhearted
soulful like chaplin under the
checkered piano key shadows
of the el at the change of seasons
the aftermath and craziness
and carnage of schoolyards
what’s really the difference
not even sure anymore and
if that would even matter
if it’s still queens or manhattan
the drag queens getting ready
like some poor pathetic widow
going through the exact same
routines and rituals at her
dressing mirror getting ready
for the hasidim living whole
other holy 2nd 3rd 4th lives
like having slipped out back
doors of vaudeville leaving
a first love lost hostile wife
a daughter to die for who
doesn’t visit anymore
and an accountant son
he claims he can’t count on
i mean why even go through
the motions of those day to day
descriptions of traits and characteristics
and so-called personalities you want to
persuade them to have them believe in
always located in the very way end
after all the shocker and horror
of the local and international news
and funnies and sports and weather
so do not move a thing out of place
we’re all just these really lonely
solitary ridiculous freaks looking
to be saved and no longer shamed
for that one simple moment of grace
leaves an end unit railroad apartment
decent chinese around the corner
a simple stroll to the park
leftover kafilte fish and
borscht and rugalech
in the refrigerator…
Joseph Reich is a social worker who lives with his wife and twelve year old son in the high-up mountains of Vermont. He has been published in a wide variety of eclectic literary journals both here and abroad, and nominated six times for The Pushcart Prize.