Rena J. Worley

VANQUISHED

Ambush from behind, wooden ball bat drops me
to knees, slaps palms to rough sidewalk concrete.
Pleasant evening walk twists horrific.
“Please no.” Confusing conversation rings me.

Bat end beats a steady tempo dull on thug’s open palm.

Unseen bludgeon shoves stiff back, forces wrinkled face
to scratch against cured aggregate. Glasses bite
tender nose bridge. Raise to forearm lean,
grit grinds into skin. Rebel staccato breath,
pushes heart, rapid pulse. I pant down
the dark shadow beneath spread flat shaking hands.
Panic pleads verbal nonstop to half dozen juveniles
circle-planted between me and park path tree line.

Bat end thuds a steady tempo off path on solid earth.

Laughter erupts, hems me in. “Do it, Switch.
They still talkin’.” Teeth hard clamp, mental outrage
screams how? To me? Anyone else. Not me.
Risking speech, “Please, please, what do you want?”
Solid club strikes thin bladed shoulder, stuns right arm,
knocks me prostrate. “We don’t want shit from you
Ol’ man. But maybe we take your bread, your cell.
You got sump’n else we might want?”

Bat end smacks a steady tempo next to my head.

I am old. I no longer run, fight, hold my own.
Painful roll onto right side, left arm labors
to free wallet and phone from pants pockets.
“Help’m out Dee. See he got sump’n else we want
while you at it.” Hesitant hands grow bold,
pat behind, shove me moaning face up,
clean me out. “Why are you doing this?”
Soft ask. Harsh answer, “Cause we can Ol’ man!”

Bat end cracks one heavy punctuation between limp legs.

Final golf-stroke slam to my left thigh, crude crew
amble off, joke, laugh, jingle keys, total up cash,
pluck ID, credit cards, deride family photos,
toss empty brown leather into wood fringe.

Awareness drifts, time slips.
Forfeited reality gains.
A distant stranger rings 911.
Though the dreaded departed,
fear may never,
never,
ever.


RJ's YouTube video reading of "Vanquished":



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RJ confesses: "Headlines glare, videos capture. Youth groups attacking city and suburban dwellers, preying on the most vulnerably fragile. Respect, consideration, conscience, all appear to be fading. Perhaps it’s wishfully nostalgic that society return to a time more virtuous filled with common decency. One can hope."

RENA J. WORLEY is a Word Artist residing in rural Michigan. She began publishing in the Five-Two on May 27, 2019.