A Conversation

The set:

A moving vehicle

ten over eighty

on a sunbright morning

a steel grey afternoon

a shining, shimmering night.

The cast:

A husband, thirty-five;

competent driver.

A son, three and five

weeks, back seat critic.

And me. Observer.

Recorder.

The script:

“Go faster, Daddy! Go faster!”

Ten, we recall, over eighty.

“Can’t, son. The policeman

would tell me off.”

A pause. Consideration.

“The policeman would tell you to stop?”

“Yes, son, he would. And

if a policeman tells you to stop,

what do you do?

“You stop, Daddy.”

“You do. The policemen are there

to help you.”

The observation:

My heart

crumpling in my chest

crushed because

my son is white.

For him,

the policemen will always help.