Like a ghost town, the Jewish quarter,
where you can hear church bells
dubbing lost voices over Main Street.

We didn’t like standing outside,
alone, doors dark, green-paned
windows throwing curious light

into the street. We put our faces
to the panes and peered in, saw
people at little tables, walled in

by drink and music.
A clarinetist wailed, moving
her body as if uncovering

something long hidden. We wanted
to go inside where they were
laughing and clapping, but there was

no room. We hung around waiting,
watching for an opening, but no one
inside wanted to get out.


© 2006 by Sharon Chmielarz. All rights reserved.