Who Goes Where?

With the knife at a throat, where does the power lie? My face must tell them; nose so bent it can smell round corners. Eye, a late-night closing. Teenage scar, a ladder across my cheek. Postcards from a youth, now a love letter of depression. Their faces shine with apprentice menace. Looking down at their catch. Who knew the new don’t see the old? It is a game of what are we each willing to give up. Me, a phone, a wallet, a book, my life a creased shirt without a tie. Them, their limited freedom of street feet pacing, chasing, never losing face in the face of others. The zero sum game of a death equals prison. It doesn’t add up but everyone keeps on counting.