Jerusalem, February 1998
This city, this country has no snow.
A
carnival behind me, little black haired
boys selling postcards,
hookah smoking
coffee men and hagglers. Hot
ozone
hanging reek of
falafel and
pita,
a hundred
new age natural food store smells.
I shiver under the weight of
history.
My friends do not notice, nor do the
camel ride
Arabs notice, the
empty quarter, narrow street,
not more than an alley.
Gunmetal doors line
ancient walls with
no windows, sealed shut this winter like last.
Someone forgot his donkey,
tied, saddled and bagged.
I wonder if this ass is the
great granddaughter of that ass,
and does
anyone still ride her,
carrying
kings through the
Lion's Gate?