Bounty

—for Daniel Stern, 1928–2007

You had your compass, your city campus,
your briefcase crammed with stories.
(Your case for the writer was brief: guilty.)

You had your novels and twice-told tales,
and cruised down the stairs like Bartleby
in reverse: a scrivener who preferred to.

You had your Franz Kafka and Max Brod,
the jackdaw and the man of letters
laughing their heads off on a corner in Prague.

You had the Jewish past in Budapest,
the hunger of dying, the Hungarian dead,
grief-stricken music for violin and cello.

You had your hardships and holidays,
your high holy days, your nights of mourning
and your days of awe, your celebrations.

You had your car rides careening around corners,
and when you walked, you were never pedestrian.
You had your Gloria, your Book of Daniel;
you had your own stern covenant with life.