He lifted his hand, it shook.
He leaned towards speech, halting.
A stroke confined his feet
to shuffled, prayerful, praises.
The day pushed dusk through blinds.

“How you buh, beautiful?” (a rasp).
“You take your meds?” the nurse said.
“How you… to… today?”, finger pointing
(reminded of it's hook).
She smiled and smoothed his bed
"You flirtin’ again? You bad man.”

Once he'd made a vow, an oath
in Auschwitz-Birkenau:
Forced to pick gold from charred teeth,
he pledged to sidestep death… to live!
And walk - in love -
to the Sabbath.


Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks