Two Diplomats

by shira

I had a dream last night
That someday I’ll be one of those people
Who asks everyone they meet in broken elevators
If they’ve heard the one about the Muslim and the Jew at the barbershop

Where neither would take off their head covering
And so were kicked out before they could ask for a shave
And then fought so close together in an alley
That the blades from their matching Swiss army knives
Cut the stubble off of each other’s faces

Then they had a good laugh as they walked back to work together
And exchanged phone numbers
For their wives to meet and their children to play
So that they could sit and watch,
Right as the planes hit, right as they stepped into the elevator

I woke up before the part where
My history teacher a few years ago on that day’s anniversary
Asked me, in the skullcap
To debate with my friend, in the hijab
About which side had caused the terrorists to crash the plane

The punch line he was looking for
Was that the hair over the Arab’s eyes was too long for him to see the building
And so there was a collision

I would have made any kind of bad joke I’d thought up while asleep
To ease the tension
But instead I frowned and refused his suggestion
And acted like one of those people who take things personally