Poem: On the Number Two Bus

By: Rabbi Nesanel Kasnett
Writer, Editor at Artscroll/Mesorah Publications




Last night

I rode the No. 2 bus
(from the Western Wall).

I rode it without fear,
or concern.

Every bullet has an address,

a great rabbi once said,

and every screw bolt nail jagged

piece of metal,

I might add.

I rode the bus

out of the Dung Gate

around past the Jaffa Gate

and into the new city.

Around the little circle

where the bus exploded

a few weeks ago

and now very clean

and repainted so you

will not remember

but of course you do

it's only the rusted relics

of a bygone war on the

hilly approach to Jerusalem

that you ignore

but the enforced normalcy...

the quickly reconstructed cafes

that I cannot bring myself

to sit in drink smoke

gaily converse in the

cool dry Jerusalem night

you ache

your heart aches

to be there to be there again

to find the spot

where the scent of pines

overwhelms you

and slings you back

over vast sunlit

spaces to the desert excavations

and the kibbutz and the Palmach caves...

to Augusta Victoria hospital and...

the jets strafing and bombing

and the black smoke rising

and then the pincer complete

and the slow inexorable move

down the valley and through

the Lions Gate until the man

broadcasts on the radio,

"The Wall is in our hands."

Three rows in front of me

on the bus

sat a boy of about ten.

From my angle I could see

only his right cheek

and the back of his head.

The cheek was memorable, though:

plump, freckled, sweet.

He chatted with what appeared to be

a schoolmate across the aisle

and by his feet

lay a black canvas bookbag.

I watched the boys chatting sweetly,

easily following their rapid Hebrew;

they talked of soccer and the Bible.

I watched them leave the bus

at the Bar Ilan stop

and I was momentarily sad

to know

that I would never see them again.