Ever, If At All

Can one return, ever, if at all to a corner,  

to a tree where he swore his love,
to the house of a scavenged photo?

to a beach where beauty danced with light,

to a corner in Jerusalem

where joy pierced a heart?

Rambling down Ramban, 

swishing along Ussishkin,

then to Bezalel, artist of the ark,

to King George, to Ben Yehuda.

A breezy April day before Pesach,

forty years have slipped by.

yellow and purple bougainvillea cascading

over Jerusalem stone.

Plaques announce streets in three tongues,

Hebrew, prancing Arabic, English clear as night,

all three heralding my wayward approach.

In the distance, I see my corner,
Steimatzky's, the falafal stand with its bent

old man stuffing falafal into pita, 

adding salad, pouring tahini.

Tilting my head, squinting, my heart 

dancing to a lost tune, 

I have returned.