Had my Grandfather Max been a messenger
Who traveled like lightning, leaping
From dream to dream carrying vital news
Everyone would have known it. On Saturday mornings
He'd have worn his fulgin cloak and badge of office
In synagogue; he'd have told wonderful stories
Of his adventures, of things seen on his journeys
And of brave and savage horses, his dear companions.
If my Grandfather Joe had that job, though,
You'd never have known it. His great dark cloak
Would have been hidden when he didn't need it
And, careful man that he was, he'd have arranged
For his shadow to quietly tuck it into his coffin
When the corpse watchers weren't looking.
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