Ed Mittleman (In Memoriam)

by Brett Rutherford

Because he was a broken song,
it was music he loved.

Back row at every concert,
ready to bolt if it was awful,
attentive, applauding,
he cradled the name
of every player.

From thrift-store finds
a horde amassed
of instruments he had.

From out his windows
came fragments of sound
from zither or flute,
or trumpet or violin,

a phrase here,
an arpeggio there,
a fanfare abbreviated,
each utterance incomplete,
too soon gone silent.

Because he was a broken bird,
the birds he loved.

A green strip
at parking lot’s edge
he peppered daily
with ample seeds.

And the birds came.
When greedy pigeons,
bad congregants,
barged in with shovel-beaks
to scoop up everything,
Ed flapped across
to drive them away.
The skirmishes
went on all day.

Bluejays and cardinals
were always welcome.
The sparrows,
if you looked,
seemed always
to be davening.

Now he is gone,
the seed and nut
no longer bountiful.

Upon his window-sill I see
a minyan of sparrows.
They tap the glass.
No answer.

Their tree was his synagogue.
Its leaves do not fall.
There, the birds sing
always, "Adonai."