In all these rotten shops， in all this broken furniture
and wrinkled ties and baseball trophies1 and coffee pots
I have never seen a post-war Philco
with the automatic eye
nor heard Ravel's Bolero the way I did
in 1945 in that tiny living room
on Beechwood Boulevard， nor danced as I did
then， my knives all flashing， my hair all streaming，
my mother red with laughter， my father cupping
his left hand under his armpit， doing the dance
of old Ukraine， the sound of his skin half drum，
half fart， the world at last a meadow，
the three of us whirling and singing， the three of us
screaming and falling， as if we were dying，
as if we could never sTOPin 1945
in Pittsburgh， beautiful filthy2 Pittsburgh， home
of the evil Mellons， 5，000 miles away
from the other dancingin Poland and Germany
oh God of mercy， oh wild God.
