& there I was in an iffy neighborhood
leaving one class late to teach another,
the sky black dark, clouds threatening,
when a small little man jumped in front of me.
"This is a robbery!" he said, "I want your wallet,
your watch and I want your shoes."
My shoes? "What'd you say?"
Was this a joke? "Can't you hear?
I want your wallet, your watch
and I want your shoes. Now."
Such a little man,
no weapon, tiny hands,
and I knew if I had to
I could just knock him down and be on my way.
"And if you don't give them to me right now,
I'm going to pee on you."
Yes,
I've heard of robbery by baseball bat,
purse, even cars. Knives, of course,
a pit bull, fists, large guns. But pee?
"What'd you say?" I'm dumb bewilderment.
"I'm going to pee on you."
I hesitate.
and he pulls it out, aims for my left shoulder,
lets loose a thick stream of urine.
I'm glad I played soccer in high school
and a little football. I dodge it easily,
but he keeps coming dribbling his pee up and down
as if we are on the court one on one.
He must have drank twenty-five glasses of water
just to rob me. But then, just as the edge
of darkness meets light, he stops and I stop too.
Out of range, of course. I watch him grunt
and strain for one last squirt, but he cannot,
gives it up, tucks it back into his pants
and says, "Sorry 'bout that, man,"
vanishing into the black darkness
November evening, closing.
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