Walk Back, Writing MAY 15, 2016

I am wobbly, walking home, some late o’clock, a trespassed short-cut over dampened grass

through this estate of town-planned care: No roads, paths only to lamp-lit porches

as cars sit, misted, braked on verges. The street light’s spill, a dry amber pool,

me, sense-struck by the waft of cuttings; I am re-routed, indirect, by a solitary tree,

it’s stillness shocked, split, by a pigeon’s clap, it disturbed by my standing, or my breathing?

The momentary effect, combined, then leading to my old flight to Israel – picked fruits, sun-browned,

lawn-fronted homes, of sprinkler’s ticker-sound: Same lives parked, people air-conditioned,

sat lamp-lit, the sole indication of life struck by us, flighted, but never leaving.