Frank and Sammy –

I ate raisin bread, a Jewish Baker baked it
My Da, said Jews in his old neighbourhood ‘were Bakers, good Bakers’
My Ma, said Jews in her old neighbourhood ‘were Bankers, good Bankers’
I think my parents were exaggerating
Sammy can’t bake, or count, and he last wore a kippah at my catholic wedding
Me and Sammy go back a long way
He works in an office, his boss sieg heils him for laughs
I drive a train, Sammy gets on my train, he’s lost lots of kippahs on trains, lost for laughs
I saw Sammy struggle to breath, I punched his political pile-on, me, the amateur champion pugilist 1983, it’s the Irish in me
I told him to sit up front with me, he said he’d enough shame in wandering around without his kippah, I said I’d store one for him in my driver’s compartment at all costs.
That kippah is a nicely lined dark blue one, embroidered label inside – “From Frank to Sammy”
He went to Israel on vacation, sent me a postcard, on it, a kippah stall next to a big wall
I went to my local bar – a toast – “To Sammy and his kippah!”

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