Bathing, 10/8/1944

Stephen M. James — Mon, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

I couldn’t wait for the station when I saw the train smoke,
A nice cushion to sit on–I had only been on a train once
–but I had loved it.
Yellow stars under a yellow sun
it’s not my color, but it was my mother’s,
said it was too bright for a tradesmen’s wife–
on the Sabbath.
Dark bodies shuffling past the light beams
between large cracks in the overused cattle car,
What did they do with all that beef?

“Name?”
“Alter?”
“F?higkeiten?”
“Sonderbehandlung!”

Shoes, clothing, watches and jewelry piled–
I add,
didn’t even glance
“Zun?chst!”
another girl inspected and stripped as
families separate and lines form.

At last, a shower after days on the train!
No steam rose from the building ahead.
Oh no, cold showers. I hate cold showers.
It is cold and there is no soap.
a cough from the shivering elderly man to my right.

the poetry knook :: the poetry of stephen m. james :: indianapolis, indiana » sabbath

Bathing, 10/8/1944