Outside, on a different planet
somewhere
Arctic winds chill
to the bone
and winter bites.
But here :
in a Palestinian hole
on E2nd
it is hot: carpets, pillows, hummus, a plate of kebabs.
My friend
commands respect here
for his fluent Arabic.
A former Mossad,
he pulls on his apple hooka
smiles
at the waiter and
whispers into my ear:
". . . How many o'our boys they's
killed . . .
how many o'theirs
I'd packed up
into the heavens!"

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Translated by Misha Delibash