An Orthodox boy carries a hat box
And stares at an old map.
He’s never been where he’s going.
I want to tell him how cloudless
It is above ground,
Tell him his umbrella is useless.
Here, a baby cries,
And down in Memphis,
A baby waits to be born.
Yesterday, my oldest friend asked
If we ever get over the past.
I thought of him all those miles
And years and years away.
I sure hope not.