Joan's Palms on Sunday

If I told this story
you would worry
say "stay safe"
"carry pepper spray"
to stop it
stop her.
Was it
dangerous?

Danger of soft pillowed hands
filled with warmth of life
and sun and scraping by
and scrapping on the street.
Warm under waving palms,
this is no royal procession:
smells and scenes of rejection
men and women who want food
no flimsy 'bread of life'
but a hearty soup.
It is all backdrop to a bruised and limping plea:
"Got a quarter?  Or a dollar?"
No, but we can get food
if you want?
"Oh yes!"
Handshake introduction:
"Joan."
Laura.
Civilized and safe
until despairing strength pulls me in
too close
my hands wound in hers
and here is danger
close as a whisper-sob
of jibbered fear:
"the police don't understand."

I have to pull away
from the insane harm
and helpless hurt
in her hands.
I hate to
have to
let her go
admit defeat
and fear.

Walking away was right?
But Joan's babbled yells
were no consolation
no checkmark
for a task completed.

It is this uncertain
mess of conscience
pepper spray would not
ameliorate.
It is this day of significance
warming me up to
full absurdity of royal parade
led by a donkey.

Danger and bruises and hands and holiness,
wrapped in palms this Sunday,
invite me to tell a story
that repeats.