Written in a bus from Jerusalem to Har Adar, July, 2018

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 28, 2018

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Submitted: August 28, 2018

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The old woman’s hand is licked by the sun

With silvergold tin foil -

I can almost hear its crackle.
 

Tomato rolls in the dusty floor trying

To find a corner to totter

Its elastic bloated skin.
 

The driver’s sunglasses reflect a road 

he may or may not watching and

Eyes stroll from window to window - 

Grease to grease - and fingerprints...


Breasts quiver small gelefied Oceanhills 

 

This bus wriggles through traffic and dances off cliffs

nd soars by a gawking forest 

Filled with unseeable eyes.


Smell of plastic, pita, and sweat

Between the thighs of that soldier.

His machine gun renders no emotion
 

And the tomato is now wedged beneath a seat
Maybe for weeks.


© Copyright 2018 Fiona Schwartzinoff. All rights reserved.