At first, just two young blokes
following me from the station
on a moonlit street
that had never seemed so dark.
Then there was only one.
Hey, poofter, he called out
as if to justify
whatever might happen.
Running away from him
down my own street.
No, don’t lead him to my front door.
I stopped. What do you want?
I need food, he said,
and I saw scars and scratches
around his wild eyes.
He could have been my son.
For ten dollars
he ran off into the night
and left me
gasping for courage.
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