Lemons

He brings a bag of lemons,

the neighbor from next door

most times, in a plastic bag

with a smile, offers the

grapefruit-size lemons to

everyone sitting on these

chairs, a hodge podge

collection of patio chairs,

tiny wooden ones from a

child’s playroom, with

stickers and jewels, pink

and red, canvas camping

chairs, barstools, always

enough, even if there aren’t

enough, like last night

when the neighbors hosted a

Shabbat dinner and their

guests came down with

glasses of wine and plates

of food, and cookies to

share, some stood, some

sat, space was given to the

old man with the cane and

the papa holding his baby

girl sleeping in her pink

flannel pj’s dotted with

purple lilacs, and the dogs,

just like us, nudging, bumping

up against one another, to

feel warm bodies close,

the air thick with waiting.

And the sound of wine

glasses. And the smell

of lemons in my neighbor’s

bag from across the room.