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To Michael Foster's previous piece
Leaving Complacency
Two steps beyond the saloon's ornate swinging doors
I hang a sharp right.
He follows. When I turn left at the second corner
he turns left.
I pick up the pace. He seems not to but I can see
over my shoulder
he doesn't lose ground. I stop beneath a street light
as if to light a cheroot.
He shifts slightly to the right, just enough to gaze
into a pawn shop window
in which I suspect I am reflected. When he turns again
his trench coat
and mouth swing open. I see he's armed to the teeth
with yellow teeth
contraband ordinance, hammer and tongs with which he comes
after me
tooth and nail. I must've crossed him. It could've been a woman
money, a job
something he wanted and thinks I got instead, something I had
to give
but withheld, the deference I gave sparingly. It's too late.
I had a sense
I was an interest.
Without noticing the transition, I became his secret mission.
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