Reflective, hand-held, pointing at us: gun,
I thought; swung my palm from driver-side locks
to Dad’s; crouched, like Mom, sheltering below
the dash. Meanwhile Dad trained his eye over
the attackers’ car, plate, clothes — memorized:
the art historian. Through the window,
stocking-masked, gangly mortals hollered, Get out! Get out! And be clobbered on the head?
Mom kept her hand on the horn, how long?
How long the horn? How long the Get out! Get out! Get out!? How long Dad’s chant, Back up! Back up! Back up!? How long the crouching women,
the watching man? They quit; drove off. Arrested
an hour later from Dad’s details. The driver,
fourteen. Dad said, I’d’ve run them over.