He found a stone in-between the fences
matted with blood and hair,
across the wire blackened canisters and rubber
which came from here but landed there.
There’s a fat old sloth slumped by the checkpoint
his weapon slung like a child’s toy,
he drags laboriously on filterless tips
and has no concern for a wounded boy.
From the tower, cameras scan the terrain
everything on CCTV,
while the man with the stone in no-mans land
ponders, which side of the fence should he be?
Ramallah 4 Feb 18
© Wolfgar 2/2018