School Books

The knife was small, and dull

maybe not too sharp

but sharp enough

and cold against my throat

 

he wanted my wallet

I didn’t have one

he wanted my money

I had just spent the last of it

on school books

 

I held them out, useless to him and

for spite, he took them

he was angry, he was loud and

passers-by heard nothing

looked through me

and walked around us

 

when it was over I felt weak

and needed to sit but I could not

not there

not where the world quivered

and blistered

where the cement was scorched