I was walking back from an overdue vaccine.
Stabbed on my right.
The left is for the mouse with whom I job-hunt.
We click our tiny voices.
We scatter our crumbs in virtual boxtraps.
Both arms sore, slicing rain to get my daughter from school...
That’s when the man in shiny Audi stopped.
Few good things stop in an Audi these days.
This one opened a window:
If you have cash, I’ll pawn you my gold chain.
His hand untucking sparkles:
Lost wallet... Need gas... Till Halifax.
I had a five & flagged it to him: Here.
He hesitated as the rich never, offered to escort me to an ATM.
Keep all the gold you want, he said.
Mini bars bounced against his palm.
But what’s the standard size: Snickers? Mars?
Gimme your address, he gentled on:
We’ll pay on the way back, retrieve our borrowed gold.
I said I need no gold.
He didn’t buy it.
My arm still powerlifting $5, my daughter waiting.
He offered me a ride.
I said I like the rain.
He rolled another window to show wife & baby.
I waved hi to the baby the wife propped up as proof.
Hand it to my wife, the man
instructed so.
Maybe the bill had always been theirs.
She collected.
The windows shut.
They sped without goodbyes.
Leaving me feeling this could have been God.
Like that joke of the stubborn in the flood.
Who keeps refusing help, saying God shall rescue me.
Then dies & meets his God, who shakes a Michelangelean head:
I sent for you & you & you...
I walked on full of rain.
Carlos A. Pittella [photo credit: Steph Leite] is haunted by borders & bureaucracies but tries to haunt them back through poetry, most recently published in the chapbook footnotes after Lorca (above/ground press). Born in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, you may find him among lyric selves in Tiohtià :ke/Montréal & at www.carlosapittella.com.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
No comments:
Post a Comment