Poem of the Month
We wore fedora hats
and ate nickel sandwiches,
and pitched copper pennies.
Like you, I promise nothing.
To a house blistered by ice I bring
a season of heat,
He must have hated this ground
or maybe loved what he feared.
Every brush stroke seems to whisper,
Today, Yousef, I am not with Hamas
Nor with Fatah, Hezbollah, Taliban or Al Queda.
Don’t mistake me for a man of conscience
I try to picture myself as
the better man, one whose
heart never picks yesterday’s
The Pawn is always a pawn, a sucker the dealer spots
a mile away, a collector of dreams with pockets full of holes.