It’s the dreaded annual Monday.
I’ve got work piled up to my ceiling
and all I want do, Hava Nashira,
is write this poem to you.
Earlier today at the market
as I turned into the cereal aisle
I just wanted to turn on my recording device
just in case something spectacular happened
near the Rice Crispies.
Trader Joe’s version to clarify…
I’m so tired I could sleep a horse.
My soul, after five days of nourishment,
is saying to me what the hell was that?
But I think it means, this.
This mundane, every day, this
fifty one pretty good Shabbats
until the really great next one.
This, oh wait, my cat is trying to operate my wife’s computer.
Sounds are coming out. Every time I hear a sound
I want to hit the record button. I might be able to use this.
It’s like a disease. One, I hope to, Moses, there is no cure for.
I’d like to have this condition forever.
I’d like any money they’d use to find a cure to
go to something else.
I’d like to go stand by a lake and not make any noise at all.
I’d like to brush my teeth without even using water.
Oh Hava Nashira, I’ve got you under my skin.
I’m not sure Kaiser covers this. But I’m not even going in.
Here’s to fifty two Shabbats from now
I counted.
Here’s to the holy work ahead.
Here’s to you
my family
my congregation
my shards of light
spread out all over the world.
We will gather them back together
and shine so bright.
As our ancestors said
next year in Oconomowoc…