by P. David Hornik (May 2015)
He lived on the hillside
with no mother
and no warmth except the scrub
in which he huddled when it rained.
The country was torn by war
and sometimes soldiers at the lookout point
tossed scraps of food
which he hunted down.
Or sometimes one of them
gave him food on purpose.
That was how I met him.
I couldn’t tell him:
“We have a thing or two in common.
When they send me home for a day
I step into my blank apartment
and wish I was back at the base.”
A half-grown cat,
white, scared, and scurrying,
he accepted a plate of cottage cheese,
eyes like blue glass
without youth or trust.
____________________________________
P. David Hornik is a freelance writer and translator in Beersheva, Israel. In recent years his work appears especially on the PJ Media and Frontpage Magazine sites, and his book Choosing Life in Israel was published in 2013. He is also the author of a recently completed autobiography.
To comment on this poem, please click here.
To help New English Review continue to publish original poetry such as this, please click here.
If you have enjoyed this poem and want to read more by P. David Hornik, please click here.
- Like
- Digg
- Del
- Tumblr
- VKontakte
- Buffer
- Love This
- Odnoklassniki
- Meneame
- Blogger
- Amazon
- Yahoo Mail
- Gmail
- AOL
- Newsvine
- HackerNews
- Evernote
- MySpace
- Mail.ru
- Viadeo
- Line
- Comments
- Yummly
- SMS
- Viber
- Telegram
- Subscribe
- Skype
- Facebook Messenger
- Kakao
- LiveJournal
- Yammer
- Edgar
- Fintel
- Mix
- Instapaper
- Copy Link