Not Me


I approach them, the crowd, 
on a sidewalk, casually.
My feet do not burn
on the concrete.

I have never mingled 
in their shadows
at backyard cookouts 
to notice a delicate wife 
bending to her husband 
with a glass of beer.

Police arrive.
Chalk outline:  
a man about to run,
one arm raised, a leg ahead of the body.

He was in a hurry.

Forensic team hustles 
(it might rain), 
snaps pictures digitizing 
the place where he went down.

I move corner to corner. 
Chalk man darts in all directions.

I knew this man.

I gaze at his blood 
in the glare of this 
odd, hazy afternoon.

Someone tells the crowd 
to make room.
I take a step back.
The voice says 

Not you.