Two Feathers said,
‘i don’t run’

he has dark, wrinkled
leathery skin, & a kid’s flat nose
his long sweat dried black hair
is streaked w/ gray

his ancestory is in the land
like mine in God

he sat at the bus stop bench
not holding his sacked bottle
he passed it down a few seats
so a cop couldn’t say it was his

“see?” he says to me
& pulls out a black and white photo
“my Grandfather . . . ”
the picture’s an old truck
w/ fat, round fenders
the side panel is riddled w/ bullet holes
a gaunt corpse in the cab
“. . . he did that.
tommy gun.”

a cop drives by
hanging the crook of his
hairy blonde arm out the window
he calls Two Feathers, Michael
& tells him to get moving

the cop car coasts up the street
moving w/ the push of traffic

“come on Two Feathers”
says a young hippie guy
w/ a stripped down bike
“let’s get going.”

“no.” he says
mad
“see what you did?
bringing the heat on me.”

“well let’s go man
they’re gonna come back.”

“no,” he says, “i don’t run.”

the hippie kid slings his pack
on his shoulder
& pushes his bike
around the
corner

i sit beside Two Feathers, in his
sweet perfume of drink
because i don’t run from trouble
just blessings in disguise
& people w/ good intentions