spastic, grease-flecked, skeleton face
crowned by an ancient yarmulke, eyes lit up like fireflies.
my falafel is crammed into a pita, doused in tahini,
sprinkled with dollops of tabouli, myself a bit unruly
fresh from broadway binging. behind, past the fog
of the deep fryer's exhalations, behind the lump of rotating lamb,
a sentimental poster of the temple mount.
puritanical pilgrims with beards longer than gaza sunsets
mingle with forced soldiers who flash guns
at anyone who looks too arab.
perhaps, you went there one night, stroked the wailing wall,
pretended that a good falafel shop could solve fifty something years of antagonism, genocide, displacement, and retribution.
perhaps, you recall the outlines of that final solution: uniformly capped,in a queue straighter than a gutter, the plume of sudden corpses making the air heave, sputter, moan. however, you are not even a fraction as nomadic as your race inclines,
your tiny shop is old enough to be a landmark.
outside and up, cardboard condominium cutouts
strangle character.
cubicle collars jangle for a passing cab,
the driver's turban is like a steeple.
perhaps, your minds swims with wonder:
what are the first and last thoughts of a suicide bomber,
slinking through a crowd of myopic normalcy,
entering that falafel shop with one foot slightly ahead of the other,
button pressed on decimation?
perhaps, your mind intends to ponder:
what are the first and last thoughts of an irate settler,
crossing fragrant olive groves with a lust for security,
entering that timeless village with both feet running,
finger squeezed on extermination?
still, my falafel tastes good, crammed into a pita, doused in tahini,
sprinkled with dollops of tabouli, myself a bit unruly
because i have no answers
to his unspoken queries.
