The Locals
A thread, a beam of light, rather,
my eyes burn at the sight, my head still contemplating
a runaway. I was never from here, a foreigner, I stay,
a dead man soon. Maybe flashlights are more of a nuisance
than a guide. They pick me up by the arms, one on each side, tense
in the fist, my eyes watering, my brain half-dead. I tell them I'm not the man they're looking for,
but they smile, they've dealt with us before.