You can swipe right and left too!
Do it on the dedicated grey bar.
Near the workshop, my uncle grows sad
laying off workers to withstand the various crises.
The "greatness" unsettles him
and perhaps he will write a book.
My father passed away among old sewing machines,
with the echo of bridges and water in his hands.
Now I have his leather-bound books
and I shiver at every untouched page.
The cousins in the factory are discontent.
It's hard to adapt, they tell him.
One finds solace in a new Pontiac,
another takes refuge in Bach and singer-songwriters.
Must we find every job prosaic
just because our grandfather built one of the first
synagogues?
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