Priests 1957

Beside the brassworks my uncle grows sad,

discharging men to meet the various crises.

He is disturbed by greatness

and may write a book.

My father died among old sewing machines,

echo of bridges and water in his hand.

I have his leather books now

and startle at each uncut page.

Cousins in the factory are unhappy.

Adjustment is difficult, they are told.

One is consoled with a new Pontiac,

one escapes with Bach and the folk-singers.

Must we find all work prosaic

because our grandfather built an еarly synagogue?