This brilliant winter morning finds

waves of snow on every lawn

and red graffiti dripping

from the walls

of Temple Mizpah

once again

as down the street

stroll ancient men

who every morning

shuffle here for prayer.

As usual, they’re lost

inside old overcoats,

their collars up,

their scarves too long,

their yarmulkes,

as always,

in diffidence

askew.

This morning, though,

they don’t go in.

They shuffle near the curb

like quail.

They can’t believe

the goose-step scrawl

on every wall.

They know their world’s

awry again, an encore

of the chaos left behind

when they were young.

The good thing is,

Chicago’s better now

than was Berlin back then

even though the temple walls

make clear this morning that

someone’s struck another match

and the ovens of Auschwitz

are crackling again.

— Donal Mahoney