i saw the man fall down
in the street,
being chased
in the rain,
clubbed for a watch
or wallet
i suppose,
it was then that i knew i had
the beginning
of a poem,
maybe two or three.
i observed
his face, the fear in his
old eyes,
the way his hat flew off,
his thrown cane.
i took note of how
no one moved
from their seats
to help him.
then
the scramble of police,
the twirl of their blue
lights,
the siren scream
as the assailants ran
down the dark tunnel
of an alley.
and then quite calmly,
the bus driver
announcing, next stop,
Pennsylvania Avenue,
Archives.
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