SECTION ELEVEN
  POETRY PAGE FOUR

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COLUMN FORTY-NINE, SEPTEMBER 1, 1999
(Copyright © 1999 Al Aronowitz)

MOSES IS TOLD HE CANNOT CROSS OVER

I bring Christopher to help George set up his computer.  George is old now
and in a wheelchair. I sit on the overstuffed sofa and listen as Christopher
explains all the steps of the program. George learns easily when the teacher
is handsome. I lean back and listen to the sound of Christopher's voice. I
have grown used to it, and follow it up and down in my mind, relishing how a
man's voice is as much a sign of his being as his fingerprints. It is late
June and the day is warm and humid. Insistent sunlight pries its way through
the blinds to the floor. The overhead fan hums away. I count myself lucky to
be here with Christopher. I look at the clutter of boxes that litter
George's
apartment. Copies of old newspapers yellow in the corner. Flat on the desk
is
a gray photo of George when he was eighteen.  How dark his hair was then. A
carton of milk warms on the table. A can of tomato juice, wedged open, leaks
a ring on the counter top. I see some dirty clothes rolled up on the floor
of
the next room. Still, with patience, Christopher explains the function of
this key and that. George is going to write his life story once the computer
is fixed. It is a long story, he says, filled with war and regret.
Christopher and I only visit for a while, but it is one of those moments
where three men hold themselves up by voices in an atmosphere that is
reverent and complete. Even the soda cans on the windowsill glow not from
metal but from grace. I think maybe the boxes piled high could be stones in
the wall of the Old Temple. Christopher's voice rises like the sweet smoke
of
an offering. Lord, what a mess, and what a mess love forgives.  ##

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