It was like all the windows in the world were opened,
and the curtains made that lovely snap of a sound they make as they billow out-of-doors.
And everybody in New York was out on their fire escape watching Fourth of July fireworks tint the night sky.
And from the streets of New York rose a cacophony of city sound that was somehow pleasant,
devoting itself entirely to a sort of refined sincerity that was gentle to the touch and sweet tasting as it resonated.
It was so loud a deaf person would have heard it, but so quiet that only I could.

She was a childhood friend of mine,
even if quite briefly,
who was the type of girl who would trap mosquitoes in her books,
or put her retainer on a napkin beside her lunch tray.
And she'd give me a very condescending look
(one eyebrow raised, and the like)
if ever I mentioned my poetry.

The arms of feeling wrap around me:
numerous and dulcet,
as I sit on a bench
or lean against a tree,
thinking of serenity.

I was alone in a field I discovered
But while running my fingers through the grass
I came across a single uprooted blade;
Tawny, with a knot at its center
And then I knew I was no stranger.

This morning I woke up a little earlier than usual
and grabbed some leftover boiled peanuts out of the fridge,
which I ate cold.

They seemed to have lost a bit of their charm,
since I always ate them hot at a picnic table in the market,
and I was usually accompanied by a friend or two.

So I sat shelling the cold peanuts,
with a paperback in front of me on the table,
which I neglected to read because my fingers were rather wet.

After a significant amount of time, during which I shelled peanuts
and pondered the various happenings and constituencies of my small lifetime,
I began to read.

And as if days of time had lapsed,
the empty shells had turned a churlish gray color,
next I looked at them.

Upon wriggling my fingers through the mound of halved shells
in a sort of diaphanous trance as I read, I stumbled upon a shell that had yet to be cracked,
which awoke me from my reverie in bestseller prose.

I was quite puzzled about how I ever could have missed it earlier.
I proceeded to roll it around in the palm of my hand, noticing its incredibly light weight.
When I opened it, there was nothing inside.

I remember I was sixteen, and it was raining.
My father told me he was going to take me somewhere I'd never been before,
and I knew immediately where it was we were headed.

As we drove past used car dealerships all claiming to have the lowest rates,
and Dominican and Cuban restaurants painted in their vivid reds and whites and blues,
their reflections painted the roads in murky puddles of summer rain and gasoline.

Turning into the cemetery we were unsure of where to look for my grandfather's grave
as Jewish names cascaded by us;
and there it was.

It was thundering then, so we waited for the weather to calm a bit and then we hopped out of the car.
We walked over to my grandfather's tombstone, and placed our respective rocks atop it.
Then my dad and I stepped back, looking at my grandfather's grave.

And while smiling in the way that is appropriate in cemeteries,
when recalling a fond moment with a loved one,
the sun began to shine on our backs.