I was not quite ten. My mother
took me to an allergy doctor
whose office was three rooms
behind glass and oak partitions
in the Jenkins Arcade. The doctor
scratched my skin with needles
and watched the lines redden
and swell. He told my mother
I should sleep with my bedroom
windows closed. After the appointment
we entered the elevator
with its brass scissors-grill gate
and rode down
past the mezzanine with its wrought-iron railing
to the long narrow lobby on the ground floor
and as we passed a newsstand
while I was still studying
the intricate black and white mosaics
under my feet
my mother said in a loud sad voice
“The smartest man in the world
just died.” I glanced up
at the stack of The Pittsburgh Press
and my mother handed an old man a dime
even though we’d get the paper at home. We walked out
through revolving doors and across the street to Horne’s.
We looked at the summer fashions in the windows
and waited for the bus. All the way home along
West Liberty Avenue I watched
people going in and out of shops
and stared at the wild-haired man
on the front page.
“He was Jewish,” my mother said.