Wolf
A scar that has healed on my finger
Reminds me of it everyday
The incident as vividly I remember
Tattooed in memory, you could say.
I was seventeen and my brother, older
Six children cramped in that place
A six -door apartment that cannot be wider
The ceiling was cracked and the paint lost its glaze.
We were not beggar poor but neither rich
So the absence of luxuries were a fact
We spent warm afternoons on the yard in which
We never craved for whatever we lacked.
One lazy afternoon, at almost sunset
We had come into the house for dinner
But my eldest brother remained there to let
The late hours of day somehow linger.
Then came this tall and boisterous man
Who demanded some ice for his drinks
My brother explained that we had none
But I felt there was some trouble, by instinct.
The man shouted expletives as my brother came in
And for fear, we shut the door behind him
As my brother said 'Duck! He's got a gun! '
We turned off the lights, the whole house was dim.
The man broke some windows and fired some shots
Gave vent to his anger out there on the street
As we ran out the backdoor into a vacant lot
A glass cut my hand and wounded my feet.
We went to the neighbors and we said 'Help us please! '
Our lives are in danger from a man with a gun
Can they kindly call up the authorities?
Then they told us, the drunk- 'He's a policeman.'
(This is a true story and that makes it more disturbing.)
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Added by Poetry Lover
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