Beside the brassworks my uncle grows sad,
discharging men to meet the various crises.
He is disturbed by greatness
and may write a book.

My father died among old sewing machines,
echo of bridges and water in his hand.
I have his leather books now
and startle at each uncut page.

Cousins in the factory are unhappy.
Adjustment is difficult, they are told.
One is consoled with a new Pontiac,
one escapes with Bach and the folk-singers.
Must we find all work prosaic
because our grandfather built an еarly synagogue?