11.18.2017

To Buy a Man a Knife

A ditch near a Garrison pine row
reminds me of the time
we helped a driver from the Russian mob
out of a snowy rut one night.
We slowed at the crooked tail lights
of the black Mercedes sedan
which somehow didn't seem his
when we spoke to him through the window.
There was someone he could call for help
but he was afraid to dial.
We could tell.
His hands were shaking as hard as his English.
Maybe he'd just offed somebody.

Barely old enough to buy booze
we shouldn't have been stopping for strangers.
None of us carried steel back then.
We thrived on immortality
and false promises made in song.
Shin deep in salty snow
the three of us pushed stubbornly enough
at that costly bumper to get our Russian friend rolling.
He kept his momentum going--
not a honk, not a wave
not a wink in the side view mirror.

Specifics of the evening's remainder unclear
I can state with firm candor
that details be damned
we chased the elusive unmentionable
and one of us managed to find it.

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