By Hayan Charara
We were stopped
at a red light, I was in the passenger seat,
and a guy crossing the street looked
at the Buick, then at us, flipped
us the middle finger and said,
Go home, camel jockeys.
However hard I try, I can’t remember
if, then and there, what the guy said
made any difference to me.
I was seven—what did I know
about crisis? As for the guy—
before the light turned green,
my father floored the pedal
and ran him over.