I didn’t blow up on Wednesday
although I heard the sirens outside my locked
window and pawed the dusty floor with my feet. It
was electric, the linoleum, humming from hallways doors clicking closed like the pink gun the cab driver shot out
the window on Purim (he was a cowboy), like
plastic soldiers clipped down in play war.
I didn’t blow up on Wednesday.
I ran this over in my head, hands raking
kotel grooves,
and it got to me.