in highrise Home for
fading Jewish garment workers
and melt senselessly into old age,
and rust and fall
into frail and delicate heaps
of Jewish wreckage.
On color-coordinated wards
retired now from sweat of pressing irons
(all rooms air-conditioned)
retired from pierced fingers of sewing machines
(no needles used for therapy pot holders)
retired forever from gnarled hands of cutting table
(cushioned now by foam pads of wheel chair)
in the picket line of their memories
screaming Yiddish epithets to
porcelain walls and Jamaican nurses.
In highrise home for
old Jewish garment workers
wrapped in blankets,
soaking in urine,
their last general strike.