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Easy StreetTo 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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