The trumpet call has been muted
now.
The shofar may no longer tremolo.
The congregants rebel and laugh
at snow
That falls like confetti on the
show.
Disgusted patrons rip their
tickets, throw
The siddur on the stage and try to go
Through every exit: all are
blocked. They flow
In mad uneasy tides from row to
row.
The ushers hide beneath the
seats; they know
Too well the future, the old
scenario,
Repeated every Rosh ha-Shana, when the slow
Performers arouse such ire, They
stow
Their candles in the secret
places, grow
Bored, and wait the awmeyn, always, now.
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