A day in Altz-what's his name's land

Tick-tock, Back and forth
Count your steps.
Waltz is three, clock is two.
Tick-tock,
turn down the shampoo.
The diapers and cars.
or maybe not.
Days float by
in hazy shreds.
Maybe it's the window.
Wipe it.
With shampoo. 
A film is on.
Without a beginning
An egg, some milk
a bit of bread
When was that?
In that place...
that big, big place...
Skoda is a crappy make. 
Ten coins ago.
Where are all the damned spoons?
Where is he?
Who? - Him.
Who's him?
I don't know.
Call him, please.
What is this thing?
It's all your fault.
Books are funny these days.
And the portions - too small.
I'm always hungry.
Tick -tock.
Who took my bed away?
or maybe not...
We had fattened geese.
And soft beds.
And real milk..
I'd like some tea, please. 
Daddy was so tall
Why is it so dark?
When is the day coming?
You're an idiot to vote for this government. 
This salad tastes funny.
Not oil? Soap?
Why are you bringing me tea?  I hate tea.
Take me home, now.
A shaking wrinkled hand reaches out - 

Jerusalem

Jerusalem.
She is an oxymoron, a city of peace that has not known any since time began.
So noisy, yet the silvery bells of silence ring behind the curtains. Stale embroidered brocade of the Arab Shuk and the glitter rain of Succot. Jerusalem of blood, and shakshuka. Ice cream and drums.  Sirens and the Shabbat trumpet. Jerusalem of the theaters and museums, red strings and tzedaka boxes, cholent and the most exquisite windows and doorways. Synthetic modesty and brazen nakedness, tefillin boys and bescarved office she-wolves muttering Psalms on the bus.
Leafy serenity of Katamon, buzz of the city center, and pine cones at the Independence Park.
The cats, having mastered Zen tranquility, observe humans scattering like mice.  Dust obscures the time as it passes, and time turns into dust right in front of your eyes, and stops for a bow at the Kotel.  Eternity winks at you from the window and offers you a tissue.
They'll slap you and throw you to the ground, then run to pick you up, because you could've gotten hurt.  Still in their slippers, because it's Home, and why bother for brothers?
Ever growing Jerusalem, steel and blue glass and  monuments that say everything, yet nothing you could understand.
When the sun goes for a dip in Tel Aviv, Jerusalem blushes the sunset on her cheeks and changes into her purple gown. Till the garbage people alarm her hustle and bustle awake.
Jerusalem, wearing her grey raincoat, splashing at you playfully from every puddle, and showering your feet on every staircase.  Stones polished into a skating rink till no dirt sticks to them.
And faces. Wrinkled faces, screaming with grief faces, clowns and madmen, hungry and greedy, longing and bored, and young olive saplings round the table blessed from Above. 
Walk all around her and surround her, count her towers and make her yours. Watch the elders spitting out the seed shells in her gates and know that the King is standing close behind the Wall, listening in, knocking at the door, looking for His beloved.
Know her, walk her, build her, love her with your every step. Don't waste a minute. Because you're living here for yourself for all those who didn't.