Arab Spring

Abdel-Hak picks up a stone, and suddenly
Ten thousand of his grandfathers are standing at the corner
Of the sun-blitzed street, and in dark-curtained doorways,
And on white roofs, watching him.
Actually almost everything here is shades of white –
Even the butt-end sprinkled cartridge cases, even the stone
In Abdel-Hak’s hand. And everything turns out
To be made of rock, especially the open-sided trucks
Into which men in granite sunglasses will toss
Abdel-Hak’s white body. Rubble, Stop signs,
Kerb without pavement, trash, intrinsic archaeology.

This is the late Stone Age after all,
And not so surprising really
That in anger
Or defiance, it’s still stones we reach for and throw.