For Instance

A Poem by Rhina P. Espaillat

A man replies, “No license, me no drive!”
to men in green who represent the state
and check the bus at random; at the wheel,
the driver fumes: his task is to arrive
punctually at the depot, and he’s late.
And you observe, wondering how to deal
with this scene: a fellow rider cuffed in steel
for lack of an ID. But what to do?
Urge him—in Spanish—to cooperate?
Or speak for him, and risk sharing his fate
by angering these guardians of the hive,
who may decide you look suspicious too?
Remind yourself that this is nothing new,
that soon he’ll be released, unhurt, alive?

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Handcuffs on a Red, Rusty Handrail, MartinThoma, 7 August 2014

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