Sheepshead bay, Brooklyn
Holocaust Park, and you’re sitting
There thinking about what those
Six million Jews may have thought
Had they been given the chance
To think at all before the trains left
And the sad falling rain of ashes.
Ruth would have been sitting here too,
You mutter softly to the blue sky
And tall trees, wearing that smile,
With those dark eyes looking all
Excited and those fingers playing
Pretend piano across her knees,
Scolding you for sitting brooding
In that gentle mocking voices of hers.
Sometimes when you sit, you believe
She’s standing behind you, rubbing
Your aching shoulders and neck;
At other times, that she’s whispering
Prayers into your ears, kissing
Each lobe in turn, making them
Burn with her long ago love.
What you fear most is that some
Schmuck will one day say, what’s
This Holocaust and who was that
Hitler guy? And they’ll say it
Quite innocently, with no thought
Of deception or deceit; and the years
Will go and voices grow fainter,
And photographs and remembered
Faces of those who perished may
Fade or be lost or put aside; but you
Hope that this place will survive
As a constant reminder; a place
Of pilgrimage; a thorn in the side
For those who may wish to forget;
And as you gaze across the way,
You sense Ruth’s presence behind
You and you hope she’ll stay.
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