Out of the RV parked at the curb

a recording of a klezmer clarinet careers

crazily against the clamor of city streets --

gatling gun of jackhammers,

pulsing of car horns,

surging discord of lower Manhattan traffic --

as a Hassid in a bad suit and earlocks

zeroes in on me strolling down the street

on my lunch break from writing speeches on AIDS

for the New York City Department of Health

and, catching my sleeve,

breathes the sour spice of

centuries-old singleness of purpose

into face and slyly enquires,

 

“You’ll take a schvitz?”

 

Inside the van

a tank of water beckons.

I shake myself loose

and continue down the sidewalk

toward other forms

of ritual cleansing.