OK.
One more poem about a character and about the transition
from countries.
This is basically about my grandfather,
who came over from Russia during the Russian Revolution.
He got drafted in the army and on his first leave,
came home and slipped out of the country under a haystack,
I think he said.
There's a mention of a word you may not be familiar with.
The word is Hasidic.
And it's a particular kind of Orthodox Jew.
They live in communities, usually.
They tend to sing a lot, which is strange for the--
strange kind of thing.
But they sing a lot, and according to my grandfather,
they used to drink a lot too.
Sounds like an exciting sect.
It's called "Our Fathers."
"In the old country, lacking freedom and tools,
they were ethical and respected the poet, the rabbi,
and the drunken Hasidic fool.
A sack of wheat was more than a sack of wheat.
Immigrants, they turned practical as sheep
and dreamed of a kettle of soup and a bank account,
a wife who spoke a little Yiddish
and kept the rest to herself.
Perfectionists, eternal worriers, and fixers,
they bent the land to their desires and called it our home.
Now, in their old age, pierced by heart attacks
and a new calm, they slump over their grandchildren
and give hard advice.
Don't worry.
Live a long life.
America is a better place than most in which to die."