Candy And Ruben

Candy, the woman
who walks the gigantic pitbull
down Mitchell Street twice a day,
stopped to speak to Ruben
last night
and the pitbull
(whose name remains a mystery to me)
sniffed at Ruben’s leg
then gently tore the pants open
at the seam.

Ruben yelled as if he’d been
ripped himself
and Candy pulled the dog back
so hard it reared like a horse.
It looked confused as Ruben
delivered a potent cockfight kick
to its ribs. 

That yelp
sounded like just another day
in progress, Ruben’s high voice
imploring something untranslatable
to the sky merely adding a flavor to the mix.

I wish I knew these people well enough
to name the dog and know what Ruben said,

but I’m not close enough to the ground here
to understand my people’s pain, how awful
and familiar such incidents are.  Instead I cower
inside when Candy walks the pitbull by
and will not speak to Ruben though I’ve heard his voice
in such an intimate way.  I avert my eyes, in fact,
when I go by his house;
though there was no permanent damage
to him, I’ve learned a little something
about fear, about lashing out,
about the risks of simply living and speaking here.