Convict(ion)s & Samaritans

Lynch-byrd by Local Artist (unknown)

At Sears, getting my flat tire fixed,
minding my own patch of scuffed linoleum
in the waiting room, as i dry from putting
on the spare in the mud & rain, a hockey game
drones in the back ground, from a hung
television, and this man, a Gideon
by the lapel pin, keeps telling the same
story---ten, twenty, thirty times
to each new person that walks in
each time time hitting my shoulder
so that i will close my book and join them---
about the man that found him
in a parking lot when his alternator went out

'he didn't just stop, he brought me to Sears
& made sure i was taken care of'

(That is not the whole story, but
consider this grace, from me to you)
& in all the re-tellings i never catch a name
but built a sketch of the suspect
in my mind with each new detail given,
the kind police put on cork boards
at the post office, of fleeing felons,
so i can hunt him down

beCAUSE he kNOwS what he did, but
does he kNOw what he did---i DO
& heard it over and over again
for two solid hours

When I find him, I will ball up my fist
one finger at a time,
            pound his door,
                      until he answers

& remind him that even though the man
never stops talking
                       ---he did a good thing.

Perhaps, he'll invite me in, we'll share laugh
over whatever he heard repeatedly
on the long two mile drive to Sears---or sit
just enjoying the silence
                       ---of our mutual breathing.


written for Imperfect Prose