A stone-faced man sits in a folding chairat the edge of his lawn. He’s facing outtoward the street, where the threat awaits.
He glares at me as if I am the threat, orthe promise of the war he will be forcedto wage. The war he has been promised
to win. He resembles the old man who satbehind the wheel of my sons’ school busfor a time. Inscrutable what he held in mind,
in check, to himself and beneath the effortof words. Everyone—everyone—is a slickseed dropped in the earth and left for a season
in the dark. I want to tell him: Sleep well, brother.Soon we will be weeds or flowers together.
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