I’ve just left Damgoode Pies after lunching
on salad, stroll Kavanaugh’s curve just past
Beechwood when a young guy, slender, munching
on a chaw, approaches tired and slow, last
mile it seems. He glances, nods, open palm
raised without a word, ancient sign of peace.
Cro-Magnons, proving clubless that way, calmed
a stranger’s fear. Le Loi, when war ceased,
announced Ming army driven from Vietnam
by lifting a hand. His men cheered. Bob would
recall his Detroit gang days, how he’d scam
a foe, hide a switchblade in his palm, could
slit a throat before the guy blinked. I think
of all this, open my palm, wave and wink.
Roger Armbrust
May 10, 2008
