I will not compare myself to Gaza's hunted residents. I've not been
Shot at, bombed or starved. I haven't suffered slaughter, or been
Hated by a vile race of people who intend to take my land. My home's
Intact. The wretched race which rules this benighted realm is mine,
And it's not apt to threaten me unless I make my feelings known.
I don't. I watch in horror as its members kill and jail those they'd
Enslaved. I wince as they disparage all who've come here after
Them. I sneer (discreetly) at their altogether unearned ethnic pride
And atavistic superstitions. Yes, they're morons, but not threats.
The thing which leaves me feeling dispossessed, a sort of dimestore
Gazan, is privation brought on by a storm. For two days, I've been
Without power. I can't drink. I have a well. I cannot eat hot food,
And cannot keep the food I do not eat from spoiling. I can't duck
The heat, or use my toilets, charge my phone, or reach or be reached
By the world. I've no Internet, so I've become a refugee. Bite your
Tongue and call me Gazan. Like them, I want little more than to
Be back at home.