Two Poems

Melamed

                            I

He stole into the classroom first day of term
a slight stooped shadow from the Pale
to train pre-teen boys to chant
verses from Old Testament tales
in Hebrew consonants and vowels
they didn’t understand or care to learn.
His wrinkled polyester drip-dry
navy-blue suit and tie
washed-out white shirt with ravelled thread
black kippah too small for his bald head
and Haftorot¹ spilling from his satchel
announced ‘yeshiva bocher² from dead shtetl’.


                            II

Origins meant nothing
to the wanton youths he faced
racketing in tablet-chairs arrayed
before a table serving as his desk:
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