what will the next poem look like?

When the world
demands you write
a happy poem
will you deliver it
with your grin
door-to-door?
Or will you sleep
through the afternoon
while the neighbors
read it aloud
to their families?
Will you craft it
lovingly with
your own hands?
Or will you use
something
now broken and
irreplaceable?

And what will the next
poem look like?
Like the ground
upon which
my home is built
plush and summer green
even in Autumn?
Will it brim with the scent
of roses
and tomatoes which
I’ve planted
with some help from Ima?
Or will it look like
a talisman
wrapped around your neck
tightly
lovingly accentuating
your cheeks
and mapping the ridged valley
of your skin?

And will the poem
respect the poet
despite everything
that has come
between them
and everything that
still might?
Will it still smell
like Haifa
in the springtime
or like Gaza year round?
Will it lie
supinely on a park bench
waiting
in vain
to remember
that we have done
our very best
to forget it?
Or will it surrender
every urge
to a stranger
with sad eyes
and a long walk home?