a poem
is a gift;
its heartbeat
beats from
across a crowded
bus station
in Jaffa
it's in the
diesel engine
of a taxi
sputtering to a
halt by the
side of the
road very close
to my home
in Bavli
and it sits
and it waits
for the pen
and for me
to sit down
to decide
when it's ripe
to give away