Holding the forearm of his companion, who is patient with him, taller than he.
Out of nowhere a boy in a Lakers shirt, surfing Sixth on his skateboard,
And he swerves just then, around the old couple, who stop to watch.
A girl hauls a backpack into the cafe, sweet now with cinnamon and chocolate,
And waits at a corner table--looking around, noticing the others--for a mocha.
Another joins her, leaning into a kiss, and simultaneously (it seems)
Checking her phone for a message, something urgent, or maybe interesting.
When the bright red ambulance roars by, they turn, out of their moment,
And toward the greasy window and the intersection just beyond it.
Reverently they watch, first, the howling sentinel disappear down Oxford,
Then, the old couple arm in arm, words on his lips, "Lord, have mercy."
I sip my tea, one foot on the table's hobbled leg, balancing it and me.
And I think I understand Heschel now, that all these holy words,
Every one of these sacred texts is a hypen, between heaven and earth.
11 November 2018
DGJ
