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[randomly selected from all my photos here]

Pantoum for Pesach (by Josh Mandel)

There's a no man's land in central Mass.
where neither NPR affiliate
I listen to is audible: I pass
in static through the bulk of it.

Without an NPR affiliate
I'm drowsy, and I count the time
with static, just to make the most of it.
Sometimes I wish my home were mine.

But drowsy, when I count the time
to dinner I remember being eight
and wishing grandma's home were mine
at Pesach, drinking wine and eating late.

One seder, I remember being eight.
My brother drank a grown-up's cup
of Pesach wine, got sick, and eating late
was not entrancing as I'd hoped.

My brother drinks a grown-up's cup
today without a second thought --
but alcohol is not entrancing as I'd hoped
from all the lessons I was taught.

This evening not a single thought
of mine is audible. I pass
ignoring lessons I've been taught.
There's a no man's land in western Mass.
[randomly selected from 21 poems/paragraphs here]

(who the heck... ?)