Your Bubbe Rochel Is Cared For In The Home Poem by Lewis Eron

When it’s too hot to sit in the courtyard,
Rochel sits inside
And sips iced tea.

When it’s too sunny
She sits in the shade
And sings old love songs
And nonsense ballads
Out loud.

When it rains
She gets wet
So we bring here in.

When it snows
She thinks of her father’s farm
In Russia
And the stove in the center of the house
On which she slept
With her bubbe
Because she was the baby.

Don’t worry
We keep her warm
With her sweater
And lap robe
And sensible shoes
And she sleeps
On the therapeutic mattress
That wiggles all night
Which is almost as cosy as a feather bed
But not as nice
Foam rubber just doesn’t leave the same impression.