Monday, June 15, 2015

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.

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.

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