Jerusalem

It's true, Jerusalem. I said those things
when I thought you couldn't hear.

And now that I sit in your streets
(wrapped in purple poncho)
drinking dark coffee (it's ok,
but not great),
praying to the gods of yogurt and honey,
doing my best to ignore your stubborn winter chill
which has occupied space in my fingers
since I stepped off the plane,
I am not embarrassed; I do not take them back.

I drink some sun and listen
to this old man in a white hat
strum Bob Dylan songs in French
and wonder politely about your madness,
and my own...

We always hurt the ones who love us,
Jerusalem,
we are too chilly and
nonchalant,
and you don't even have a good scarf.

I don't mind the cute way
your people, confused, disembark
from the train just as they do everything else:
The system is "there is no system."
Push, shove, ignore, throw
garbage on the streets

because you've got bigger fish to fry.

But what happens, Jerusalem, when the day comes
you're tired of frying fish?
You'll just sit here in silence
with the white-hat-man and his covers
of songs from the sixties
smoking stolen cigarettes
from Palestine.

I am not your prophet, Jerusalem.
i will not hold vigil, smudge your walls with sage
or hummus, pour coffee grinds in your gutters,
unlike you, Jerusalem,
I will just go.