He appears suddenly in my window
as I pull out of the driveway, “Help.”
“Take me to the highway.
I have no papers. I am in trouble.”
I’m late, I say, noting he is my age,
with hair like my father, and wearing
a grey suit jacket. “I’ve got
to drop this off for my son.
He’s waiting in the street.”
“I’ll be back soon,” I say,
maybe thinking he’ll be gone
or I’ll call the police when I get
to a phone. I don’t remember
quite what I was thinking. Maybe
I’d take him to the highway
and feel stupid afterward,
or virtuous,
or scared
or dead.
When I come back he is flat
against the neighbor’s garden wall,
being frisked by the cop not holding
the machine gun. I drive
into the parking lot behind the house
sit in the car
close my eyes.