Clara St.

Early on a Saturday morning,
wrapped in a red, fleece blanket,
I face the cool whistling wind of fall.
Across the street a tin fence
decked with graffiti hides
the labor of construction workers.

Before I can ponder what they hope
to accomplish on the other side,
little steps of young boys invade my thoughts
followed by the shuffling of platform shoes,
rushing to the synagogue, holding their yarmulkes,
their payots and coats blown back by the wind.

The call to prayer sounds at the nearby mosque
as fathers, sons dressed in white
punjabis and kufis hustle to get their sandals.

Church bells ring in the distance
as the hands hit twelve.

I ponder what they hope to accomplish
with knees on the floor to face a force
too great to fathom, but a jackhammer
jolts my senses and I decide
that I’ll find out when I peek at the other side.