At the Cement Gas Station

At the Cement Gas Station

The long thirsty walk ended with the glint of steel guns.

Steel guns, cradled in the arms of stiff soldiers,

Gleaming bullets like pageant banners across shoulders,

Steel guns bright in the dust, machine guns, AKs?

They needed no name,

They were just guns.

For safety, they said, safety in the musty air,

Of the gas station nearby nothing,

Down the crumbled road from nothing,

Between the burning city of humid sewage, dirty clothes waving,

And the bright village at the beach, sunburned foreigners hiding.

For safety, from the boy who said we should leave this road,

Too dangerous, so he followed us, Roberto, speaking animatedly,

With a wide smile, sharing stories like he walked, rapidly,

Along the whole path, disappeared as fast,

Parting with, This is safe enough.

For safety, at the air conditioned, grunge gas station,

And as I left, I stared deeply,

At the teenage face, stern, avoiding my gaze, staring stiffly straight,

Of the soldier.

And I looked at the unsympathetic, steel gun,

I looked, the safety wasn’t on.