Schmaltz

My grandfather died asking for it,
sweet, greasy juice
of bird-who-never-ran-fast-enough,
yellow smear of chicken fat on a bagel.
Tubes in and out of every hole of him,
total failure of the body to endure its own appetites,
and his scared sons leaning over the hospital bed,
hungry for last words.  "Sure wish
I could taste some schmaltz,"
he rasped, and died.

Sentiment comes and goes, but food is serious.

The old man in charge of the kosher butcher shop
has a white flowing beard,
hooded eyes, hawk nose.
He wears a jeweled and embroidered yarmulke,
and a blood-stained apron.
Those blazing eyes see right through me, I can tell--    
they know I only go to Temple once, maybe twice a year
to hear Kol Nidre and say Kaddish,
just for the unbearable sweetness of the minor key.   
And he can see that I only shop kosher
because it tastes better,
while at home we eat pepperoni pizza straight from the box,
but he gives me my heavy bird anyway.
Even the faithless should eat well.

Behind the shop, in the parking lot
Leroy approaches with his rags and Windex.   
Says today's real bad, no one will even talk to him.   
Tears in his eyes
he describes the meal he wants to buy
around the corner at KFC:   
"Two pieces, a breast and a leg,
mashed potatoes.  Greens, a biscuit.  Gravy."

Hunger the common language that unites us,
less elegant than music, more painful than love.   
I give him a dollar plus all the change I have,
and later regret
not letting myself give more: a five, a twenty.   
Enough is a miracle to have, even for an hour.
Not much else can furnish
that full feeling, besides the kindness
we yearn toward; our poetry, our schmaltz.