Phobia

It all began with robbery. A dark,

smart, little punk showed me his gun. I froze.

Only I did not freeze enough.  To act

was probably a bad idea. He rose

the gun, and I began to move. The sharp

pain and the bang exciting me. ‘Suppose

it wasn’t my day to die. I look at him and smirk.

Adrenaline kicked in, my pressure rose

to a peak, and as if I were a star

from Rambo or Die Hard, I fought. Disposed

the gun from the punk’s hand. Then the park

got packed. The crowd saw the boy, broke nose,

blood in the pavement. When my blood cooled down

I found a starving child lying on the ground.

*

Rich kids of Salvador, me and my crowd,

walked in the streets that don’t belong to us.

They joked and laughed at the world around:

Poor houses, barefoot kids, crazy man that cursed

someone invisible. They pointed at

the children, bathing with an empty ice

cream pint. Isn’t it adorable? Their flat

stomachs showed me their hunger. That’s the price

we’ve got to pay for the indifference,

an ugly past with slavery, a huge debt

from times of colony and no advance

in the economy. My girl friends threat

to leave if I don’t stop the blabbering

The kids still bathe in sewage, smiling.

*

The car is going eighty miles. That and

the glass between me and the world should make

me feel secure. Still my hair stands on end,

dilated pupils, sweaty palms, the fake

impression that a gun, or knife can threat

my life at any moment. Panic is

inside me. Frozen, I observe the wet

streets, empty. No mass murderer in his

way to the bus, no robber selling gum

or cigarette packs at the stop light.  Despite

the lack of threat, my heart beats fast, crazed drum

inside my temple, and my throat is tight.

Yet rationally I know I must go on,

love, live, work unafraid. But the fear’s my home.