WEBVTT

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Here's a poem called
"The Star Market."

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There really was a Star Market,
in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

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Anybody know that?

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Alison?

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You remember.

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You remember that Star Market?

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Porter Square.

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Porter Square.

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"The Star Market."

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The people Jesus loved were
shopping at the Star Market

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yesterday.

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An old, light-colored
man standing next to me

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at the checkout
breathed so heavily,

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I had to step back a few steps.

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Even after his bags
were packed, he still

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stood, breathing hard,
and hawking into his hand.

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The feeble, the lame, I
could hardly look at them.

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Shuffling through the aisles,
they smelled of decay,

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as if the Star Market
had declared a day off

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for the able-bodied,
and I had wandered

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in with the rest of them.

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Sour milk, bad meat, looking
for cereal and spring water.

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Jesus must have been a
saint, I said to myself.

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Looking for my lost
car in the parking lot

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later, stumbling
among the people, who

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would have been lowered into
rooms by ropes, who would have

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crept out of caves, or
crawled from the corners

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of public baths, on their hands
and knees, begging for mercy.

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If I touch only the
hem of his garment,

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one woman thought, could I
bear the look on his face

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when he wheels around?

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