Mohammad
By Michael Domino
By Michael Domino
Body in tall weeds.
Legs crossed and lifeless, jutting into traffic.
Cars swerve around grimy collapsed limbs.
I do the same… man or beast? Man or beast?
Call it in to 911, just call it in and forget about it.
Rearview mirror—it’s a man, a person.
Call it in, it’s a police problem; just call it in.
Pull over, grab phone, drove too far. It’s gone from the mirror.
Anonymous me call anonymous voice to rescue anonymous person?
Illegal U-turn back, cancel Mirage plans, and figure this out.
Can’t believe I drove so far before my mind got right.
Dirty sneakers, charcoal sock less ankles, stained kakis.
Caution blinkers on, roll window down.
What face is shielded by tamped-down weeds?
“Do you need help?”…. “What?”..... “Do you need help?”
“Yes, it’s my leg. I can’t walk—my leg and my back.”
“Can you stand? Can you get up? Can you get in?”
He struggles in with shopping bag, broken umbrella, and big doughnut box.
“Thank you. Thank you. I am Mohammad. God bless you”
His pant les rises and his shin is badly swollen and discolored.
“Your leg, my God, your leg… you must get help.”
“My leg is fine. I will take aspirin and it will get better.”
“I don’t think so; it looks very bad, too bad for aspirin. You need a doctor.”
He reaches into his jacket pocket. I watch his bearded face closely.
I fear not the bullet—a blade or screwdriver.
He withdraws a cell phone and shows me a wallet, full of cash and credit
cards.
“I am not a poor man. I have two houses. I worked in telecommunications
for 30 years.
What is your name, my friend. Only you helped me,” he says.
I just say, “Where can I take you?”
Mohammed wants to go to the train station.
When we get there, I ask, “Where will you go now?”
He says he will go to break the locks off his other house in Queens.
He says his divorce has taken everything and 23 years of marriage is down
the drain.
I urge him not to take the train, but to go to a clinic for his leg.
He says that his local doctor will see him, if I drive him there.
We go there and have to walk up two flights.
He fights his pain, step by step, and his body shrinks and curls to half its
height.
As his size lessens his words grow grander, and he speaks of God.
“People pass me and don’t see me for who I really am. God knows who I am.
What is your name, please?”
I say, “Keep walking. Can you make it up?”
“I am from India and I am named after the one God revealed himself to.
I know that people look down on me because of my dirty clothes and my
twisted body.
They do not see me for who I really am. Please give me your name, kind sir.”
I say, “Here, let me open the door. I hope they will know you here and help
you.”
Mohammed says, “Yes, they know me here. This is my doctor.”
The nurses know him but say his doctor is out and the rest are all booked.
A nurse whispers to me that he is a very sick man.
I tell her that I picked him up from the shoulder of the highway.
The nurse says that she will call a cab for him to the emergency room.
Mohamed agrees and shows his wallet full of money and credit cards.
I say, “He has money and can pay the cab. Please take care of him.”
”Mohammed,” I say, “do not sleep in the street tonight. Get healthy again.
Try
to forget the past and start a new life. Go to Queens and try to forget about
these things. Let them go.”
He assures me that he will find a motel tonight and not sleep on the
roadside.
“Kind sir, what is your name? Give me your name,” I hear Mohammed’s
voice
beckoning as I close the door behind me.
Legs crossed and lifeless, jutting into traffic.
Cars swerve around grimy collapsed limbs.
I do the same… man or beast? Man or beast?
Call it in to 911, just call it in and forget about it.
Rearview mirror—it’s a man, a person.
Call it in, it’s a police problem; just call it in.
Pull over, grab phone, drove too far. It’s gone from the mirror.
Anonymous me call anonymous voice to rescue anonymous person?
Illegal U-turn back, cancel Mirage plans, and figure this out.
Can’t believe I drove so far before my mind got right.
Dirty sneakers, charcoal sock less ankles, stained kakis.
Caution blinkers on, roll window down.
What face is shielded by tamped-down weeds?
“Do you need help?”…. “What?”..... “Do you need help?”
“Yes, it’s my leg. I can’t walk—my leg and my back.”
“Can you stand? Can you get up? Can you get in?”
He struggles in with shopping bag, broken umbrella, and big doughnut box.
“Thank you. Thank you. I am Mohammad. God bless you”
His pant les rises and his shin is badly swollen and discolored.
“Your leg, my God, your leg… you must get help.”
“My leg is fine. I will take aspirin and it will get better.”
“I don’t think so; it looks very bad, too bad for aspirin. You need a doctor.”
He reaches into his jacket pocket. I watch his bearded face closely.
I fear not the bullet—a blade or screwdriver.
He withdraws a cell phone and shows me a wallet, full of cash and credit
cards.
“I am not a poor man. I have two houses. I worked in telecommunications
for 30 years.
What is your name, my friend. Only you helped me,” he says.
I just say, “Where can I take you?”
Mohammed wants to go to the train station.
When we get there, I ask, “Where will you go now?”
He says he will go to break the locks off his other house in Queens.
He says his divorce has taken everything and 23 years of marriage is down
the drain.
I urge him not to take the train, but to go to a clinic for his leg.
He says that his local doctor will see him, if I drive him there.
We go there and have to walk up two flights.
He fights his pain, step by step, and his body shrinks and curls to half its
height.
As his size lessens his words grow grander, and he speaks of God.
“People pass me and don’t see me for who I really am. God knows who I am.
What is your name, please?”
I say, “Keep walking. Can you make it up?”
“I am from India and I am named after the one God revealed himself to.
I know that people look down on me because of my dirty clothes and my
twisted body.
They do not see me for who I really am. Please give me your name, kind sir.”
I say, “Here, let me open the door. I hope they will know you here and help
you.”
Mohammed says, “Yes, they know me here. This is my doctor.”
The nurses know him but say his doctor is out and the rest are all booked.
A nurse whispers to me that he is a very sick man.
I tell her that I picked him up from the shoulder of the highway.
The nurse says that she will call a cab for him to the emergency room.
Mohamed agrees and shows his wallet full of money and credit cards.
I say, “He has money and can pay the cab. Please take care of him.”
”Mohammed,” I say, “do not sleep in the street tonight. Get healthy again.
Try
to forget the past and start a new life. Go to Queens and try to forget about
these things. Let them go.”
He assures me that he will find a motel tonight and not sleep on the
roadside.
“Kind sir, what is your name? Give me your name,” I hear Mohammed’s
voice
beckoning as I close the door behind me.
© 2007 by Michael Domino
August 22, 2007
Huntington, NY
Huntington, NY