Ice on the sidewalk. You said Revolutionary Road was devastating,
you always used that word when you spoke about movies you loved,
devastating
& you shuddered & sighed,
we crossed the icy street, fast, we were running late,
you hurried like a yeshiva bocher would,
although you had been off the derech many years,
frequenting jazz bars on Saturday afternoons
dressed in black & white—
a friend of mine once said you looked very religious
& you smiled some glib answer you always had ready
& while I hurried after you across the street I made a note to self,
buy Yates’ Collected Stories, the birthday present you wouldn’t open for days,
the book that decayed in your worn-out backpack
where you hoarded everything you couldn’t get rid of,
3D glasses, broken lollipops, greasy popcorn bags,
event wristbands, a set of dreidels & condoms—for the homeless—
until I helped you carry the trash out,
but on that Shabbat day I was planning what to cook for you on your birthday
& even now, when I think of Zinc Bar, all I see is red velvet, dim light,
how you played with my fingers, the smile in your eyes.