I never go by Arley’s anymore.
Still,
every week
he comes to school to teach and
sometimes
I bump into Vera, or
Miller Rice,
or Mad Dog.
They are always kind.
They ask after my father.
They ask how my hands are feeling.
I cross my arms in front of me
tight
so my scars won’t show.
These days Mad Dog looks at me
halfway between picking a fight and kindness.
He walks with me a ways some afternoons,
never says a word.
He’s quiet once the other girls go off.
I’ve had enough of quiet men.
I ought to keep clear of Mad Dog.
But I don’t.
April 1935