The Libyan Poet Recites in Brighton, Massachusetts Before He Is Prepped for Surgery
Would our bus stop take him
To St. Elizabeth’s in the morning?
Scheduled for the anesthesiologist,
He said “abdomen” as if I could understand.
Are you from the university?
He asked if I knew my poems by heart.
The halogen lamps blinked on and off,
Square as his teeth, the sun a citrus
Behind four-story silhouettes.
Would you like to hear one of my poems?
Recite one of yours.
My throat dry with embarrassment
I fiddled for a line on my phone
And my bus making the turn.
He placed his hand on my shoulder,
Pressed us close — with his voice
Almost touching my ear, recited
The syllabic freight of his coast.
My satchel wedged between
Applied his weight against my leg.
I could not see his left hand.
I know the word “gazelle.”
A pickpocket works like this,
And I wished the stranger health,
Boarded the 66, watched him disappear.
I checked my wallet, my pockets twice,
For the proof I was sure of, that this man
Had not arrived out of the evening
To give me something before I would
Have something taken from him.