A man in a dirty undershirt shouted
“Hey, kid!” from an upper window.
He held a pistol aimed at me and laughed.
This was on Main Street north of downtown
On a bright afternoon in August. I ran.
His laughter, like gun shots, followed me
Even around the corner. Why was he?
What was he? A drunk? A criminal?
Was he contemplating shooting himself
Because his girl had run away from him,
Her letter crumpled in his other hand?
Maybe the gun wasn’t real, a water pistol.
His laughter sounded friendly in my head,
Not taunting or meant to humiliate me.
He might have bumped his head on the sash,
Because he had gone quiet so abruptly.
Was he now bleeding, whispering curses,
And might come down and chase a kid?
It was the hottest, most humid day yet
Of a long summer, and he was suffering,
Perhaps, so pointing a gun at anything
Took his corruption out of mind for a time,
The liquid and noisome, atom by atom,
Putrefaction of a few once-pure thoughts.
How can the mind see him now, 60 years
Later, when he’s been dead for 60 years?
