We’re camped at ease over steaming lattes,
the Village’s Café Cioccolato
filled with wind-chime voices. I simply say,
Saw PBS Frontline last night, a show
about priests molesting boys. My friend’s smile,
slender crescent, warps to a jagged jaw.
Green eyes slant as shoulders curl—panther’s style
of prepping to pounce. Fingers spread like claws.
A vise grips my gut. Then suddenly fire
fades from his eyes, lids close, lips form mute prayer.
This scene takes only seconds. I desire
to question him, but don’t. Decide to stare
toward the window. Softly say, Yanks, I guess,
will get rained out. Glance at him. He nods yes.
Roger Armbrust
February 8, 2008
