Poetry by Edith Bockian

Edith Bockian

While the women moved the after-dinner dishes
From the table to sink, with clatter and chatter,
And assorted uncles and cousins
Grouped to talk of politics, and the cost of living,
the girls sprawled on the rug, giggling
And ah-h-ing at some new found treasure.
David, having had his fill of terrier-teasing,
Ambled over nonchalantly to see
What he might be missing.
"It's Grandma's photo album," Jenny volunteered.
Prominent upon the page, on a print, brown-toned,
A straight backed, mustached fellow stared ahead,
Hand upon a table, as if to steady himself before
The slow recording eye of an ancient camera.
"I think he was a colonel in the Civil War,"
she crowed. "Wish we could trace our family
To the Revolution. Know a girl at school who can,
And is she ever proud!"
David shrugged, remembering Paul,
the greatest friend a guy could ever have.
He could only trace his ancestors to Auschwitz.

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