When Jewish blood

flowed down from the mountain,

Father said it was time to move.

We left.

When my mind gets quiet

and I try to do nothing,

my body sings a lullaby

I haven’t heard since Mother

sang to me many years ago.

I breathe naked air

and watch tree branches

in a flurry of wind

converse with each other

in a neighborly way.

Clouds come and go,

playing musical chairs.

It’s a moving panorama

like the Futurama

at the ’39 Worlds Fair.

Only my balaboosta

Grandmother in Bucharest

excelled at doing nothing,

Her elbows leaned

on a windowsill

day in and day out.

Her forearms sagged

from eating mounds

of herring and potatoes.

In repose, she chewed

on pumpernickel,

with crab-apple jelly,

while she monitored

parades of passersby

on cobblestone streets.