a census

A census in 2008

revealed two million

six hundred ninety five thousand

five hundred ninety eight

people lived in Chicago.

On July 1, 2010 we added four more,

topping off the hundreds column

with all the flourish of stale pannekoeken waiting for stroop.

Tonight I mark

the census particulars

in a large paved walking circle:

two white women playing tennis

in the middle of four empty courts;

she serves like a seven-year-old,

bouncing the ball on the concrete

and stroking underhand

an elderly Asian man jogs,

joining us on the perimeter;

he is wearing bright blue,

sweat dampens his forehead

and steady stays his pace

two small deer

meander the adjoining parks,

slower than the jogger,

flanked some distance by

a watchful mother on the tree-line

they are able to live here

in this city of broken roads

because others have learned to

respect and revere their presence

I mark them because they are

unaccounted—

no census tells of their existence

but the dignity afforded them by God

and two Jewish boys sit on a park bench,

outside the path, facing in;

they both wear bright white tops

black trousers, black shoes and skull caps;

ringlets dangle by each ear,

playing to catch God’s whisper in the wind;

Shabbat has just ended

I am on the footpath as I pass the quiet boys

while two women, faces covered,

stroll in our direction shortly after

bowed prayers to Allah.

They chat in words I do not recognize

yet I do know something of their language.

The key word is translated as peace.

I rest and think: “So be it among the multitudes

we scarcely know.”

Could it be that we are side-by-side

now

here

in heaven

and Shabbat

has just begun?

A Census

by Troy Cady