It’s a job


Into the alley, for a walk,
Walk? More of a trudge, as sack is pulling hard
(Loose weave allows the sand in and out behind)
dragging me to stay, my hand stretched back
(Little parcels of unknown content, pile and clank inside)
No matter, let me see, few stones but mostly sand, my shoes agape,
Look to the side, a wall unkempt, some plaster peeling,
Revealing bricks of mud and straw…

Eyes up, just so,
Few people, makeshift stalls,
scrawny kids (* Beware, they may attack # I know) pass by,
Look up? See edges of stained laundry flapping
More? But I can’t straighten bending back
beneath my heavy wooden cargo.

Turn left…

Into street a little broader, less sand more cobbles,
Not much of an improvement as bumps my soles do pain,
in heat walk limps and wallows onto


where hundreds of the species Males are
Huddling bartering threatening fighting
dividing clustering betting ogling mocking and throbbing,
But no real shouting, For fear of “justice”.
If you complain to cops, they beat you for your insolence,
But if the crowd grew too noisy, they would come
And beat the lot with wooden stuffs
(* Have you considered killing all the males?
# Not going to help, the babies will grow-up and be the same
* Ah…)

Set up…

From my aching back I unpack,
Set the stabs of wood on the floor and on top erect my beautiful door.
I think it is magnificent! I really do, it is squarish of line,
Wider then the span of my two outstretched hands
And half a leg taller then the tallest man!
Only 4 inches thick, made of two equal size slabs that perfectly fit,
Dark deep oak cherry gloss,
It is perfect!

The day…

Now all I have to do is sell it.
Easier said then done, few come to talk,
Some I ask (and later implore) and they complain,
So much and more: no ornaments? How plain,
The color? Too bland! It is too big! It is too small!
Too heavy! It will not do! The price is steep!!
(Of that I do agree) it’s steep indeed,
A third of a lifetime is truly harsh;
I can do payments, but no discount.

The day drags on, and hot is hotter more,
Wet air meets sweat and dirt, and tempers flare,
The hawkers hawk to no avail as day just fades away,
It starts to rain, but no relief from water pours as it is hot (and muddy more)
And as I stand in empty square I feel despair,
Therefore I turn towards the


It opens smooth as butter milk;
I enter in and close behind,
There is no room but all of space,
No light but vision fine,
No rain or fear, a snuggle dear,
A place to be, to feed and grow,
I stretch (and curl)
I rest (I play)
It is


I open door
To empty square

What shall I sell today?

– Yehoshua Aryeh Sapir


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