A Fly On The Wall In Palestine

In my living room the television blinks
vehemently, confirming a reality
worlds and words away; compressed
and delivered in northwest English.
I cut the volume down to a low hum:
something comforting to go with my tea.

The seeds sown in spite must serve
some greater good like children marching
around the neighborhood under one flag.
It's understood there will be no
compromise, no reprise; promises
linger in the air, exhaled
by different lips every year or so.

My stake is on the news: half
a child's body draped across concrete
slabs; hazardous dust obscuring my view.
It is news that stays news.
As the image is exposed to the outside world
it oxidizes over. Now a story on potential
epidemics. Why isn't it covered every day? Time

on a global scale barely fits within a
God's window let alone sandwiched between
talk show hosts with commercials that go, go, go
though I'd rather see something I want than something
someone else needs. Call me a realist, a gymnast:
too squeamish to address the cancerous abscess

I contort my understanding, whiting out
the more colorful areas of my compound eye till I
am left with a blank canvas and I look wide-eyed
to the world: a stunted crying child
fast-awake and dreaming from all sides.

Can I have a stunt double to fight
in the war I saw on t.v.? To be brief:
no, but knowing is half the battle.