POOR PLACES
jeff norris
There are places so poor, you can kill anybody you want.
Names of places to fill pages.
When I was a young boy. We lived in Ethiopia for a time.
Actually, we lived in a walled compound.
It was made to look and feel like the United States of America,
plopped down right there on the emaciated face of East Africa.
Outside the wall, the people ate air.
They let flies drink from their eyes.
I met Haile Selassie Emperor of Ethiopia, Lion of Judah.
As a boy, I shook his hand.
Rastafarians worship him now.
He’s dead.
If the Rastafarians knew I shook his hand, they might want my hand.
Maybe before I’m through using it. Who knows?
My Mother was at a market one day and her car got robbed.
Somebody took a coat... worth about forty-five dollars.
The Ethiopian Police caught the guy, too.
They returned my mother’s coat.
And asked if she wanted to attend the hanging.
My mother said this:
“He stole a coat.”
The Ethiopian Policeman said this:
“We are a poor country, we cannot afford thieves.”
“Do you wish to come to the hanging?”
My Mother said this:
“No.”
Had she gone, might they have served delicate pastries?
Might everyone have dressed colorfully?
Would they have cheered? Who knows?
There are places so poor you can kill anybody you want.
Honest.
