Boxed In Poem by shimon weinroth

His picture taken by box camera on a tripod
a stolen image made to grow with time
Every two weeks my father would take us to see
the patriarch, chief of flowing beard

He spoke gutteral Yiddish and broken English
We were born in the same country 80 years apart
Even now I can smell him, No deoderant or toothpaste
Only disinfectant soap stinging

The photo, magic carpet carries me back
to the time zone in Williamsburg, Brighton Beach NY
He never made a gesture of familiarity
Ours to respect and never question,

The Kabalah 0f alte zadies and bubbus
I always thought how lucky I was to have escaped his fate
But he went to heaven
And I who cannot believe, envy him