My Synagogue

The lines of the Italian market are drawn in sweet produce garbage
belly full Alf redo

Stoops crowd Mexican children huddled together sharing five slices of pizza
grocers calling out prices

Let me squeeze you here, God, like the shoulders of my father
I need no other synagogue then this filth

I look up to you like a night shining where only day lasts

heartbeat moves faster here then a sweet smelling virgin about to lose it inside me

I find my flag
waving molten gold poring through river of blood

How was this market street made
under the cover of stink?

Will the market still be here in a hundred years?

Will the hooks still hold red meat swaying in the moon lit butcher shop?

Will the fish be tossed and packed into ice, as their eyeballs stare into your soul?

Will the aroma of Asiago, Fontina, and Romana swirl in the nostrils of all those who stroll?

Will the accordion player hum old world songs at lovers passing by?

Will immigrant skin flakes float into gutters heavenly belly and

     rise like the hairs on Moses’ neck guzzling the Red Sea

     fall like a father’s kiss on his son’s soft cheek?