A Brief Encounter

Out one evening,

late,

in the darkest corner of this town,

my feet pounding homeward

through these rookie streets

There, on an approaching corner,

stand two, lurking.

They are coming up faster than I wish they would

until I see

it is me

approaching them.

So I slow

to take stock of the scene:

Dark figures -

dark clothes,

dark faces,

the signature

of these stark places.

I sort through this bag of assumptions

I carry with me

and have them all summed up –

Rebellion, nah,

but crime, more likely,

loitering with intent,

crack, smack, mug, stab.

I’m closer now.

I see the whites of eyes in black faces

glance towards me then away,

conscious inattention

focussed on each other,

designed, I’m sure,

to unsettle and unnerve.

Is that danger I detect

poised in their

forced relaxation.

Looking now at each other

while gripping,

I’m certain of it,

the coming encounter

between the two of them 

and me

like a starting pistol

held against their clenching stomachs.

There will be a point –

we’re nearly there –

when they gear up and turn to face me.

Will they let me pass first, then spring?

I grip keys in my pocket,

run scenarios in my head,

seek surreptitious bolt holes

in surrounding doorways.

I tool up

defensively

with profound prejudices –

justifying my fear,

forgiving myself for the

superhuman violence

I am perpetrating in my mind.

We’re here now

it must come now

the sweat on brow

the mouth dry

the teeth of keys breaking the skin

of my clenched fingers.

Cross over, cross over

I’m shouting in my head

Avoid, avoid, avoid!

But too late now –

I am so close upon them that

to cross would seem an aggressive act

and would no doubt

draw out their fire

and shower me with black ire

released from millennia of abuse

and shame

the time ripe to take revenge for a race

ill treated by my white hand

or my father’s or my father’s father’s …

So here we are in this crashing moment

me walking 

and on the point of passing them

my head slightly bowed,

prepared for the blow,

aiming to avoid their eyes

and yet unable to do so

completely

and I glance,

just one brief glance,

at the one by the wall

the one whose cheeks seem to shine

somewhat

in the streetlight.

Not merely the gloss

of black skin under neon

but a flash of wetness beneath the eyes.

But in that very half second – 

he glimpses me glancing

and turns away.

The other, seeing this

looks at me directly

a defiant look

a challenge.

“Come on then,” he’s saying,

“What?!”

But 

I don’t know what,

I hope I say,

with my infinitesimal shrug

and grimace.

I’m passed them now

Thank God

Thank God

I’m passed them

and my breathing starts again.

And now

Some feet beyond

I’m ready to glance anew

and though I dare not do it

I do,

fearing yet the strike.

But

as I look

the other is leaning in to his companion

and reaching for his hand,

not a fist bumping

black cliché

of a handshake

but a gentle movement

to hold the other’s finger

and as I walk away,

watching across my shoulder,

he leans in further and kisses

the lips of his friend,

a gentle kiss

of comfort and support,

while the kissed one reaches his free hand up

and wipes at his cheeks

with the ball of his thumb.