There Was No Chimney In The Camp Poem by gary polonsky

There was no chimney in the camp,
The one to which we would arrive,
So though the straw was urine-damp,
We were relieved to be alive.

Our behaviour was like gas
That fills a shape no matter what,
Where every Kaddish is a Mass
To The Messiah, whither sought.

Of course no toothbrushes or mats
Or monthly mail from whom, or why,
When one toils to empty vats,
The only mortgage is to die.

Even mercies harken pain
As being deloused afore asleep,
Standing naked in the rain
Like icicles a-drip, a-heap.

Of course, all postures came and went,
Every sinecure of soul.
Unless you've yielded life for lent,
Never judge - your half's not whole.


Written in Ontario, Canada - 18th May 2020