Wakeup Call

the shiny replacement straps

of my decades-old Tefillin

don’t wrap my arm like an old habit.

they keep ending up

in the wrong place;

like a visitor to Shul

sitting in the Rabbi’s seat.

my old strap tore

the morning after Rosh Hashana -

presumably decreed

the day before.

the new ones

haven’t learned

the routine.

I’m left fidgeting with them

to get it right. like a person

tripping over the arcane words

of the Selichos prayers,

looking forward to when

Yom Kippur passes

so they can

return to the familiar monotony

of mindless prayer.

despite God’s best effort –

to tear the straps and

shake us awake.

Vidui (confession)

I watch the 80-year-old man

with the white shirt and large 

black Yarmulke run pigeon-toed

after each car that enters

the cemetery, clutching 

a handwritten sign: 

“prayers for the deceased.”

is he here to provide

prayers for the dead -

comfort for the grieving -

or food for his family?

hunched over,

each foot threatening

to trip the other, he chases cars

that ignore him as he offers

the only thing he has left to give.

I look away

to ease my discomfort.

telling myself I am

protecting his dignity.

despite every effort he

has made 

to be seen.