If I were Palestinian I’d be

dead by now,

shot at a check-point, (my mouth

starts working before my brain,

and prudence is not

my gift.)

Bullies are the betes noirs of my life

since childhood;

so detestable I’ve punched out

thugs, tossed

safety to the fates, been

lucky; saved

by those unwilling to see blood

nor witness

the exposure of unprincipled power,

by which they, themselves,

quietly prosper.

When the fiend is lured

from its cave,

the hyena stops its laugh

and rips the wounded

prey; when

the bully shows his rage,

inner violence consumes

coherence,

obliterates the mind,

sucks up the soupcon of prudence

one may possess,

the veneer of justice

burns away.

Then we see who and what and where,

and that the enemy

thus exposed,

can be had.