bout de papier, Vol. 7, No. 1 (1989), p. 33
“Who are you?” he screamed
thrusting the rifle into my face.
I had often imagined
just such an occasion.
“Stand aside my man” I would say
cooly brushing dust from my immaculate lapels
“Canadian High Commission:”
and of course
he would stand aside, humbly muttering an apology.
Instead I heard a small voice say
very quietly
“Canadian High Commission.”
“Oh. All right,” and the rifle violently waved me on.
I drove on slowly
past prisoners herded into army trucks
slowly round the corner
then like hell
until my shaking legs forced a stop.
At home
they think I’m on the cocktail party circuit.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 7, No. 1 (1989), p. 33. Read the rest of this issue →
