hot espresso dribbles down throats
while old jewish women compare
grandchildren and superstitions.
a remnant from gypsy days
plays his piano accordian too loudly.
kosher meats hang in windows
whilst hairless women in
heavy hung skirts act as pilgrims;
children follow blind
to the next festival,
celebrating the pasts they have not lives
(but have to live with)
our yom kippur is palestine
and our jerusalem
is no longer a safe place.
(but that's not what the bakeries or the zionist camps tell us. that's not what exists in the minds of thick pouches of skin beneath heavy eyes of our grandparents.)
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