It’s Art Fest downtown
and I’m wandering
along with many others,
among the white tents
set up in the street,
looking at metal sculptures
like mangled insects,
and paintings of fragmented people
with chopped up faces
and body parts strewn
like puzzle pieces.

A shrill voice
draws my gaze:
a woman with matted blonde hair
sitting by herself on the sidewalk,
having a conversation
with at least two
other people.

“What did you do to my son?
Where is he?”
she yells,
turning to face one,
then the other.

I’m watching this,
unsure what to do,
unable to look away.

People walk past,
headphones in,
looking at their screens.
Two cops show up,
begin talking to her
and for once,
I’m glad they’re around.

Walking on, I turn down
a quiet side street
away from the main drag,
back toward the lot
where my car is parked.

A man covered in
faded blue prison tats
is walking toward me
with long strides,
looking around,
arms swinging in big arcs
with fists balled at the ends,
his jaw working sideways
like a crackhead on a ******.

The back of my neck tingles
as I take my hands
out of my pockets,
remembering the video
I saw last night:
two scumbags in the Bronx
knocking some poor guy
out cold just for kicks,
high fiving as he lay
unconscious in the street.

A few steps away,
he nods, says
“What’s up bro?”
I raise my chin, “Sup.”
We pass.
I throw a glance
back over my shoulder
as he rounds a corner
and disappears.

Here’s my car.
I get in, turn the key,
and roll the **** out of here.