Poetry
Charley Allen
Witness
I heard her crying,
saw his hand go back,
fist clenched,
knuckles glowing white in the moonlight
Pulled out a crumpled pack,
lit a cigarette
and chose not to listen,
to feign blindness in the night.
I took a drag,
and didn't move,
didn't think
until someone screamed
to call the police,
poor young girl's blood
getting ready to stain the pristine
white of our innocent suburban hands
And I took another drag,
stepped out behind the car
to the number of the plate,
the make and model.
And I wrote it all down
on the gray blank slate in my head,
watched his fist connect with her lip,
and forgot.
I saw her blood spray
carnival confetti red
against the half-fogged glass
of the window.
I took a drag
and wondered
what the hell she had done
so wrong this time.
I didn't think,
didn't yell,
didn't move,
just listened to her cry
notes from an old time hymn
whimpers of words I could
not quite recognize mixed with the
percussion slap of fist and cheek.
I watched her head go back
and bounce against glass,
eyes swollen so tight,
I could almost pretend she was smiling.
I took a drag,
heard the sirens in the distance,
I took a drag,
stepped back up on the curb
I took a drag
and thought
well, maybe
she deserved it.
This poem appeared in Notations literary magazine, Murray State
University, 2003.
