An Invitation to the Dance

We’re in the Souk in somewhere like Baghdad, but not so land-locked. Tripoli, more like. “He stole an apple – catch the little tyke!” The hue and cry goes up. They chase the lad, whose crime is hunger: look at how he’s clad! Pursuers, armed with blunderbuss and spike, are gaining. As they’re just about to strike, they get the sharpest shock they ever had. America. A sailor, all in white. His face asks, “What’s the cause of this furore?” The child is safe now. Fairness, tied to might, has stunned the mob. Those instincts we adore don’t need articulation. Right is right. How sad we’ll never see this any more.