Friday Night

I’ve been going through and editing some old stuff. My poetry is not fantastic (my prose is much better), but I thought I’d post this anyway.

Friday Night

I sit in the row and wait,

wait for it to end

with 3 stars in the sky.

I listen to him speak,

an old book in my hand

with pages turning to the right,

my skin stained

with Hebrew tattoos.

We rise and sing and sit and pray.

My mind and soul are overwhelmed with

Spiritual restlessness

Longing for a tactile



and competing with

Tradition and respect,

which I can see top the head of my father and brothers.

And it makes me wonder:

What if I can’t see

Those 3 stars in the sky?


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